Where I'm From

Where I'm From

I am from Payless sneakers and a plastic grandmother
the fragile kind
who put butter on their cheeks
who if I touched would break.
I am from Ave J and pink synagogues, graying women who pray in their backyard.
I am from Dial soap and cheap detergent-the kind that makes your hands rough.
I am from the oak tree I climb on, Peter Lugis, Lil'Kim and the lock downs, keep it poppin'
and "how come she always spacing out?"
I am from the sky peeling its' scabs then servicing the wreckage of kids washed up on the streets by the fire-hydrant
the color drained from their faces
their lungs vacuumed of all breath from laughing so hard.
I am from dreams that hide my grandmother's dead body so heaven shall not have her.
I am from a Brooklyn that I barely remember and a N.Y. that I barely know.
I am from the belly of a ghetto kid who the world is mad at because she is not yet incarcerated
kids who want to be big but who have to settle
for being squashed
each time
they rise.
I am from
banging a stick against a garbage can
and calling it
music
finding a guitar on
the street
and playing my heart out.
I am from summers that went by too quickly
When I think about where I am from I wonder because
the
leaking
of lessons to me from grandmother to mother was unintentional.
like all good lessons are.

-Amalie Kwassman