I am from pencils
from blueprints and a drill
that went to the moon.
I'm from the crab grass along
the white fence edging the alley
and eternally peeling red paint.
I'm from the room my mother split with one of her sisters,
the room she still sleeps in today.
I'm from the ornate spindles
on a staircase that, if you look very closely, has an old
dog's fur plastered into the veneer.
I'm from kapusta and kielbasa and foreign words
I'm only just remembering to learn
but that sound like home anyway.

I am from sweet corn
and the Bozo Show and pennies
flattened on railroad tracks.
I'm from pickup trucks and a job
at Del Monte.
I'm from daydreams and magic tricks
and bicycle rides to a picnic, and
from the branches
of the only Northern Spy apple tree
in three counties.
I'm from the ambitions of a boy
who went away with the Navy
and came back a man.
I’m from the pitcher that once held
milk, fresh from the cow and sat on a Canadian table,
not a bookshelf.
I’m from the dirt under a German farmer’s fingernails.
I’m from the ocean spray that stung the eyes
of a Viking, a long time ago.

I’m from a sea of happenstance.
Maybe I’m from a missed train
maybe I’m from a viciously stolen taxi.
And I’m from the moment when,
at a 1991 convention,
two strangers just happened
to meet.