I haven’t written one of these poems in a while. It comes out different every time.
I am from oyster casserole, jam cake, sweet tea and fried chicken.
I am from the bomb shelter where Dad worked 50 stairs below the ground.
I am from picket lines and returning glass bottles to Pic Pac.
I am from horse feathers, shoot fire, Hell, I don’t know and what in tarnation!
I am from the kitten that arrived in the back of a pickup truck and summer days swinging on the vine over the creek.
I am from lurking through the woods solving Nancy Drew mysteries and reading books in a tree.
I am from a small town in the South, a child of the forest and farm
rebelling to be cityfied
only to return to her roots
more grounded than before.