I am from the ugly lime green carpet and the bad taste of beer.
burning my windowpane into gray and orchid. I am from the city of clouds.
I am from the chocolate Easter egg hunt-the hardest kind-when the eggs
I am from the salty taste in the bird's mouth as he dips into the Chesapeake Bay.
I am from a rags-to-riches story. I am from the new strict table manners that became my
I am from a new house full of antiques glowing chestnut and cherry wood, just polished
I am from the fog lifting over the city so that we all knew we were on an island and a
echo with more dark silver, as if it was breathing quietly, in R.E.M.
I return to the sound of the record player scratching its needle in a parody of silence
silent, though sometimes it fell silent as it rejoiced in the small sounds of birds.
I return proudly to my attempts at meditation, when I lit a candle and tried to think
I return to my face in the mirror, beginning
I feel I am beginning to know what the word "where" means.