Where I’m From

027I 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.


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