This poem made my eyes fill with tears when the Maker read it to me. Maybe because he’s the youngest, maybe because there were so many unexpected insights offered, line after line. I can’t decide whether it’s very twelve (years old) and boy (so much food!), or entirely, surprisingly, out of the boundaries of that sort of reckoning.
Whatever it is, I find it rare and beautiful…
Recaptured below with original spelling intact:
Where I’m From
I am from rich coffie, from
busted paintballs to sizzling
bacon. I am from calm scent to
blasted remixes. I am from the
faint russtle of leaves to the loud
obnoxious alarm of five o-clock.
I am from my bright red
guitar, from soft flannel P.J.’s.
I’m from juicy grapefruit to
crispy bacon, from dry lips in
the morning. I’m from crunchy,
sweet, and yummy. Dark to light,
bland to rich. I’m from down
at the rock, from heartless school
desks, to campfire chats.
I am me.
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