from
after Ada Limón
i come from the blood that drips from the thumb
cut on the opening of a beer can
that threshold of ledge
between air and a contained liquid
the thin opening that allows a drip
lost in the rippling brown
i come from not the stone but the stone’s
man-made sharp edge
the way a bone could be a club
or could be fuel for the broth
could be the structure held while the human teeth
rip flesh from a wing
i come from the salted sauce
the crushed garlic in a wooden bowl
a bowl of pickled turnips
turning their edges to soft brown
i come from pronounced brows
from a land where some roll their r’s
and some drop them where some stop
in the dead of night to pray
for cousins when the spirit hits
i come from a land hit
by the spirit or spirits or bottles of liquor or the voices
of god and ancestors of stories
warping over time’s indifferent swiftness
my mother went to a different country
for her first marriage moved to a new city
after the ending of the second
my father learned the loneliness a suburb
washes us in swishes us around in its cheeks
in the river near where i’m from there are many fish
and for them to live their best lives
it means i will never see them
they swim within the water’s dark murk
beyond what our vision can pierce
it is so tempting to tempt
it is so easy to miss history
it is so easy to miss the catch
when we played at the park my father would throw
the soft ball gentle direct it came for me i flinched
