Where I Am From

I come from a city with more lamp posts than trees,
family homes glued together, sharing walls and backyards.
Dogs bark across patches of grass,
rusty swings creak in unison.
Views of parking lots and potholed streets—
my playground.

I shared a room with a sister who resented me,
rode my banana-seat bike with wobbly legs
around the parking lot.
Mom said it wasn’t safe to leave.

Weekend nights spent in my room,
parents playing cards, glasses clinking,
a lighter clicking, smoke thickening.
Thunderstorms rolled in;
I’d hide beneath my sheets.

Station wagon rides in the way-back seat,
plastic or homemade costumes on Halloween.
Family gathered around food,
music setting the mood.
Cards shuffling, counting quarters,
looking for twenty-one to get it done.

The head of the family sewed us together,
but as time passed, the stitch came undone—
still connected,
by the same thread