I am from a squeaky screen door
from the floors underneath me
and the door behind it.

I am from brown carpet
the felt fluffy and clean.
I am from the pitcher plant
the apple tree
whose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.

I am from long shopping trips for hats and styles, from Stacey and Stephen II.

I am from yelling and screaming
and from fighting.

I am from “it is what it is”
And, “it’s life”
And, “row your own boat”

I’m from singing at Thanksgiving.
I’m from Watkins Glen and Germany
and burritos and meatloaf.

I’m from family in and out of jail
and dad doing drugs.

From stuffed animals on my bed
to society.