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.