Monday, July 15, 2019
            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
Monday, July 15, 2019