Iam from books piled high on the floor,
from Bradbury, Asimov, Livingston Hill,
from Life and Look and Reader’s Digest,
from cookbooks and Bibles and Our Daily Bread,
from the evening Dispatch and the morning Journal,
extravagant melding–dead trees, living thoughts.

Iam from the Hilltop in the state capitol,
a zone in transition where
down-home smells of cooking collards met
citrusy crunch of lightly-dressed iceberg,
and the picket fence dividing line was hung
with coded signs.

Iam from all-day Sunday church and Wednesday Bible study
from freshly pressed hair and brightly shined shoes,
from Saturday fasts and big Sunday feasts,
from singing and praising the mighty name of Jesus,
from kneeling and praying, if it be Your Will Lord.

Iam from Grandma’s backyard bursting with life,
from roses and lilies midst peppers and squash,
from grapevines and peach trees
in way-too-small spaces
from spunky, strong-willed, and seldom deterred.

I am from the Day of Pentecost,
from Jesus’ name baptism,
from Rapture expectation with hope and with dread,
from solemn repentance that mandated sackcloth,
from soaring revival that bubbled with joy.

I am from loss, a Mom I don’t remember,
from blessing, an over-the-top cast of kin,
from Granny and Grandma and Papa and Daddy,
from Uncle Jim, Ju-ya, and Uncle Bill,
from always-there family, for good or for ill.