I am from the two children
kissing in the basement
underneath hallelujahs
and choirs,
and warbling sopranos
with pink nails.
I am from you, from the deep red
of you, from the caves of your heart
that wanted me,
that kept me.
From the asbestos to the linoleum,
I am from the basement and the bed,
from your jeans that widened,
from your hair that whitened,
from your arms still strong,
smelling cold cream.
I am from the maple tree
that was doomed to fall
but never did. The tree lost
a limb, soft wood inside,
drops damp leaves, is
a raccoon bed at night.
Its voice is the ocean
in autumn windstorms.
I am from mourning,
from celebration,
from bowls of cereal spilled
on the floor and crunched underfoot.
I ate, I destroyed,
and you cleaned the floor
with a wet cloth.
