I am from Sunshine Milk Powder from Nestle and alligator clips on battery terminals.
I am from the tiny block houses strung together by well trodden tracks, handmade, secluded, names scratched into wet concrete and mortar curved with little teaspoons.
I am from the mulberry trees, the burnt she-oak forests shedding rough nuts good for ammunition.
I am from camping under blue tarps near waterfalls and trips to the dump, cast iron bathtubs with fires underneath, scorching bums. I am from table tennis champions. From Jeanne and Beatrice and Scott
I am from skinny brown legs crossed over each other, licking plates clean and making things with your hands.
From If you never did nothing you must have done something and You’re a Bad Egg.
I am from a void of spiritualism. Exclusion from Rainbow Club and never knowing the words to psalm songs sung around the school piano.
I am from the end of a long dirt road. From handsome settlers, smooth musicians and motorcycle riders. Hot chips and mayonnaise and blocks of chocolate.
I am from the flopped cakes my Great Grandma threw out of the window in her fury, the toe Dad mangled in the mower, the sixty-three thousand chords Uncle Maurrie could play on a ukulele to accompany his sister’s song.
I am from the bookshelf, the bottom draw and little piles on the shelf above the phone.