Where Lane is From

I am from painted fruit along the kitchen walls,
from ice cold tiles and brittle clay.
I am from shaded blankets and clawing grass
(familiar creatures creep around me, pouncing at birds.)
I am from the sloping hill, from the swing above the grave,
a spider creeps up the rope, hiding in the bark
from rusty swing sets and bird nests,
from sitting still and being quiet.

I am from scabby knees and bruised knuckles,
from chocolate and nuts.
I'm from hot summers and cold winds tearing at our aspen trees,
from milky eyes and ivory keys.
I'm from spaghetti sauce and basil plants,
from hands gripping me tight,
from blood mixing with asphalt.

I'm from white death masks and cotton filled bullet holes,
from dusty letters and skin crawling in the basement,
from toes on thorns and leaves tangled in unkempt hair,
from a child's fingers tracing over detailed sketches,
from lit candles and tissue boxes,
from the stench of hydrogen peroxide.

I am from those moments not yet lost to the rigors of life,
sun kissed bliss painting what I can never obtain.

Lane Lillywhite
inspired by George Ella Lyon's “Where I'm From”