I’m from a place where the earth is flat and the people kind,
where the air is dirty and the face is clean,
where my grandmother teaches me to make wine glasses sing,
and where the men merely hum the hymns in church.
I am from a place where life is certain, and time is swift,
where everyone knows nothing, they don’t want to know about,
where forbidden books are curtained off and curtains are still handsewn,
and the plots of land you were born on is the most sacred thing you own.
I am from a place where kids play themselves bloody, muddy, and wild,
where lawns become marsh in the circling sprinkling heat of water play.
I’m from a place where dragonflies dart over murky pools,
where hornets chase us with a buzzing unwelcome ‘Marco’ shout.
I’m from a place where the weekend air is full of familiar chattering fires,
where weeknights smell of candle wax and kerosene.
I’m from a place where tragedies are plastered on lampposts,
where we never speak around this kitchen-table-home.