I’m from the white pain peeling barn,
From the barely working silos.
I’m from the two-toned cows
That lull in the green pasture.
I’m from where the lilies and ferns grow out front,
Too bad they weren’t red.

I’m from the hundreds of laundry baskets sitting around
From the Angry Beavers and breakfast burritos.
From “There’s nothing in your closet” and homemade chile.
From when Uncle Jack’s death brought little Jody’s birth.
From creases of German and Irish.

I’m from those missed church classes that don’t matter now.
From wanting to be a spice girl.
From faded colored pictures and 4h projects that were too cute to suck.
From the basket ball games
And from the guitar players.

I’m from the canning of pickles
From the mull of a tractor plowing the field.
From a group of republicans
From chasing down pigs in the neighbor’s front yard.
From aspirations and braiding that pony’s tail,
To the zoo we call our home.

Where I’m from is an amazing place,
Where pain fades with time
And the black and white is extraordinary.