• Dreams

    I come from ketchup and peanut butter,
    From games of make-believe in Becky's basement.
    I'm from Saturday morning cartoons;
    From horses, castles, and far-away lands,
    The dreams of a little girl.
    I'm from the torment of Samantha Brown,
    The harsh words of impatient sisters;
    From "You're such a selfish brat!"
    And from "Sit still, chew quieter."
    I come from autumn leaves,
    The heady scent of my memory.
    I come from apple pies,
    Spiked with cinnamon and lemon juice,
    Served with vanilla ice cream quickly melting.

    I grew up with the whales of Bantry Bay;
    I come from its misty, chiseled heights, where
    The jellyfish I chased, and where
    I tickled the sea otters
    The dreams of a little girl.
    I'm from a wrist sprained on the monkey bars,
    From voices raised in hateful shouting.
    The floor of my room was my sanctuary
    Where I went, in my shame
    To soak my pillow with tears.
    I come from Jo and Doby,
    Percy French, the great poet,
    And the Irishwoman in China;
    But also from more humble origins,
    In Rustburg, down south
    In the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
    Where the air is clear and the grass sways.

    Doubt and pride were my defining features,
    Scorn and disbelief, also.
    I'm from a boundless grace that I never understood,
    The hard-backed pews of weekly routine
    And the dusty hymnals of the Methodists.
    I come from Cymbalta,
    Found tucked away on top of the fridge;
    From a bottle of cologne never used,
    Gathering dust in the medicine cabinet.
    I'm from a senior concert at William & Mary,
    Where I fell in love at the first note;
    The tangy scent of rosin became my ambrosia.
    I'm from calloused fingertips,
    The purplish bruise under my jaw,
    And a back so sore from practicing
    That leaning over is sweet agony.
    Where I come from is a symphony in bittersweet,
    An Indian summer of heartbreaks and ambitions
    The dreams of a little girl.