Where We Came From

Inspired by George Ella Lyon's "Where I'm From"

-Geneva Willis-

There used to be these giant stone slabs in amidst the bog back home.

Ancient, rusted pipes burst from them like splinters.

We'd sit atop the tallest one, watching the single-story hospital settle among the forest swamp,

Tying pine branches into fortresses.

Cross the motionless iron-orange stream on somebody's long rotted spring-box mattress;

Cross that one lane entrance to the single-story hospital and into the swamp.

Side-by-side we used to walk down the overgrown gravel pathways,

Mud and leaning forest pushing in about us.

Sometimes there'd be five of us, including you, as we wandered through cattails and nettles.

It was always us jumping from one dead tree to another, screeching,

Falling into muddy trenches,

Watching small-town bicyclists skitter past in 80's reminiscent, neon spandex.

The old inn used to dance across the fringe of the single-story hospital.

Men in orange jump-suits dug out all the stream-beds that skirted it-

We'd lay and watch them on a bed of reeds, wondering what they might have done, before

Tearing off to the graveyard.

We found the oldest mausoleum and sat on its raised steps watching willows' boughs.

Passerby always gave us dirty looks- well...me.

No one ever saw you.

There was a vagueness in the universe around you, and every Saturday and Sunday morning

Row upon row of corn would weave past the car.

Snow used to fall and frantic prancing through the yard ensued the newness;

Fallen pines always made the best of hiding places from blizzards, watching the single-story hospital

Bury itself in a void of shimmered, pearlescent white.

Somewhere my name was being called by the parents you didn't have.

You had me.

We used to climb the tapered pines, stretching higher than any house ever could.

I'd get stuck halfway up and you'd sit and wait, smiling,

Never laughing like them.

Daddy used to work in the pole-barn, he was always home- and we'd ride with him on deliveries.

Sometimes I worked on his ancient machinery- state of the art back then.

Then we'd weave through the disassembled motorcycles in his shop, wondering why

We didn't have technical expertise like he did-

To create a machine from nothing.

At least I could create you.

Reviews

[Peter Joseph Swanson]

Fantastic!