I am from wicker chairs under fleeting rain and cracks of thunder.
From bird seed near oak trees across the underbelly of power-washed decks.
I am from the rock in our backyard once struck by lightning after the creaking floorboards and slamming doors stopped bellowing their march of death, shaking the crimson bottles.
I am from firewood in the rain, tripping on beehives and foothills of stingers— whose soil they till burrows a harrowing cry of weeping doves struck down by lightning above.
I am from broken trains and red-hot engines brushing past your skin.
From southeast and northern climates clashing together and turning brittle bones bare; and from the carved stone that masks warning signs and wears silence as a crown.
From the names that bury past troubles, bleeding internal and best left idle.
I am from pond water, muddled and shrill as my nightmare recedes.
From cottage pie and lumpias, bitten off pear branches shrouded by illness.
From too many children clambering inside one home and falling out of love, and from smoke and ember tearing up newspaper shreds as the dog hides from summer fireworks.
(A pair of irons fists colliding into walls inside as the cat tucks himself beneath an old bed.)
I am from the moments of hiding under covers or in dark closets, breathing too little and heart aching too much.
(Half-false threats and kitchenware breaking, rocks near the ocean and bottles empty— pinned by doubt and born to blame.)