© 2011 David Fraser

Where Am I From

I am from scrub brushes

washboards in the sink,

a bent back, boiled water,

diesel grit, heft,

dinner served at five, a tired face

behind the paper every night.

I am from walls have ears

teeth-grind silences, knives and forks

talking on cheap china plates.

I am from my mother’s job

keeping Mrs. Pink’s house clean,

my father’s job, his glowing face

stoking fires at Firestone

I am picnics on the grass

beside the highway,

frugal on a Sunday afternoon.

I am from my own sweet place,

tall grass blown against my knees,

a hollow tree, a blue bell that still blooms,

stones kept in pockets

a dance with a partner swaying

to the beat while drinking rye.

I am from the cold white stars

in a black night sky.

I am not a stranger.

I am from a moment when I knew

a sparrow saved could still fly.

All work is property of David Fraser.

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