Where I Come From

I come from the hiss
of radiators in winter,
from pipes that grumble
like an old man clearing his throat.

I come from Sunday sauce,
starch and worry
pressed into every shirt
my mother ironed.

I come from a kitchen
where everyone sat
until plates were cleared,
every morsel consumed.

I come from a father
who built and unbuilt himself,
eyes flickering
like lights before a storm,
the way I learned
to read a mood
with no margin.

I come from women
who hid in house coats,
stitched longing into hems,
said God willing
when they meant
I’m afraid.

I come from
stoops and sirens,
stories in rooms
with plastic-covered chairs.

I come from love
that couldn’t speak my name,
from grief that folded itself
into closets,
behind hats
brought out only
when someone died.

I come from the quiet
after the storm.

And still,
I come
from the pulse
that keeps returning,
from the persistent
insistence
of breath,
from the knowing
I am here,
still,
I am
becoming.