Poetry. Origins: Where I am from.

​before we left SanFrancisco, I asked to visit Chinatown
late afternoon sunshine filtered through the shadows of the Golden Gate bridge
into the back of the Volkswagen van 
we walked the streets until my legs ached
through the smell and shock of slaughtered pigs being heaved over men’s shoulders, cluttered shops displaying incongruous silk slippers and noisemakers
I made the mistake of looking through the holes in the papered window 
at the Wax Museum: torture scenes of men hanging by their braids, rats gnawing their eyes

when instead I had meant to say the Japanese Tea Garden,
with almond cookies and tiny wooden tea sets that fit inside brightly painted red apples,
mixing up China and Japan in my kid brain. 

soon after, we drove north, moved to Cave Junction
to live on a farm.
I sat in the upper branches of the plum tree frosted pink with blossoms
just past the driveway fence
picked through hot blackberry bushes that scratched until beads of blood
appeared in patterns 
on my arms and legs
purple fingers and tongue,
while grandpa quietly gathered quarts of berries
in his long sleeves and sunhat, 
never scolding us for eating too many

I dove into the freezing water of the creek, eyes open under the new green world 
full of petrified wood and magical rocks
in the fairy forest of southern Oregon 
where moss covered tree fall and serpentine rock in soft carpet

every day after school, I ran in the fields- far, far
mouth sealed shut
until I could see the lay of the land in the evening light
the trees somehow romantic in their positions against the fading sky

fury often overtook my silence with
uncontrolled screams
gripping the seat of my pants to lever the force coming out of me

like the coyotes that yipped me awake in the blazing moonlight
while they congregated on Serpentine Hill 
goosebumps prickling the back of my neck as I strained my eyes to see them
through my bedroom window


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