I am from a rooftop garden That smell like fresh guavas And hard, wired fences Behind which lies a foggy skyline A dreaming city
I am from a small, brown-red backyard shed Tucked between rural green fields Where two little girls defended the world from evil by Laughing and swinging wildly on a rusted, fluorescent swing set
I am from a row of townhouses Where no matter how late the return Warm lights inside glow Beckoning
I am from strong rocks Against which foamy, icy waves crash Leaving behind grass Soft to touch And hard to uproot
I am from eating overdone fried chicken From short-lived patience From a voicemail That will always say From Lucy, Tulu and Samah
From don’t eat that, it’s for the guests And if you have to do it, do it, but I don’t want to hear about it.
From too many whys And not enough faith
I am from Dhaka, Bangladesh From jostling crowds and hearing a million voices outside
I am from Limerick, Ireland. From rustic houses and quaint parishes
I am from Wallingford, Pennsylvania From suburbia and inane boredom
From the college-genius who crashed weddings on weekends, The woman who is still unimpressed by sushi in Japan
I am from feeling sad if you do But wanting to make you laugh anyway