Where I Remain

after “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon

There’s not much to say

about where I am from, where

I remain rooted in the ground.

There were apple trees, an orchard only

a few miles away, countryside covering

the area as far as I could see. This town

so distant, this house too big; I am from here.

I am from bonfires burning

on a summer night sitting for hours,

from the smoke clinging to my clothes

for days afterward. I am from nights

spent staring at galaxies above,

constellations clouding my vision

as I reach for a shooting star. I hope

to snatch it by its tail and pull it from the sky.

The streaks of light are gone too quick,

escaping my desperate hands.

It’s what I see in memory, always night,

never the embrace of sunlight. Perhaps it could

be gleaned, could be seen if I venture back,

cling onto golden recollections like handfuls

of wild daffodils pulled from the earth.

But I cannot forget how bouquets will wilt in still water,

tossed out with life so brief. I am from the grief

like acid in my stomach digesting itself,

the grief that clogs my throat,

chains my lungs, the grief that burrows

into my heart. I am from indifferent fathers,

perfectionist mothers, married at twenty

and four kids by thirty, broken glass

thrown into a blender and called a family.

There’s no pride to be found

in fruit so rotten, apples fallen

not far from the tree, decaying

in putrid dirt. This is where I’m rooted.

This is where I remain, seeded sorrow

dug in despair, planted long before

I was even born here.

Rey Tello