I am from

I found this writing exercise the other day and thought I would give it a try. It is a poem where each line starts with 'I am from.'


I am from falling out of a window
From a bright red blow-up chair
Covered with dirt that
Clings to the skin
Catching my father’s
Saint Christopher medal
In my hand.

I am from beams of sunlight
That cut across my red fire truck
Illuminating dust motes that
Hang in the air
Sitting on a worn rug
From someone else’s
Time and family

I am from a rock pile
Placed down to spread
Which made a
Ramp and a brake
For a bicycle spill;
Blood and tears washed
Those stones.

I am from a redwood
Platform built with
My father
That would be a start
Of water fights and hiding
A space of my own
To read every fall’s work.

I am from climbing
Pine trees with
Their lifeblood on your hands
And the green needles
Taking your blood
If you knew not where
To rest.

I am from laying beneath
A Christmas tree
Gazing at the lights
Kitchen sounds
Mingling with music
Warming my smile in a
Hazy blue reflection.

I am from dashing about
Playground beams
Laughing and tagging
Until a miscalculation
Took my knees
Away for the start
Of ninth grade.

I am from buttons and
Knobs and lenses
That guide light onto
Ferrous oxide
Recording
If only briefly
A memory.

I am from the hey-days
Of bits and pipes
That boomed in the
Nineties to fall
Subdued but not
Out, to rise again
Steadier, stronger.

I am from writing
A word and a thought
Transposed on paper
Or here in the ether
With desire to leave
A delible mark like
Snow on windshield.