I am from

I am from crickets and cicadas on hot August nights
from porch swings and hands like paper
I am from grape juice instead of wine
(where God entered papaw’s head every Sunday and flew out his mouth)

I am from fried chicken picked up at the corner store
mingled with the smell of gasoline
(just like heaven, I know)

I am from the sound of your heart breaking
as I left the church
as you gave away your sons
(the secret family, unspoken)
as you buried the dead baby who looked like me

I am from black sheep and hymnals
from baptisms in the river
from dusty roads that snake through the jungle

I am from the pageantry of small town
nowhere