When My Son Asks Where We Are From
From where broomcorn grows, grass to sweep Mother Lee’s
shaking under the bluestone, under the trickling
sluice of Groot’s Creek. We are believers
who toss mud bombs into the murk of Lock Seven,
ride home with dead cats slung over our handlebars.
We are from spoon-food they make of our bodies.
We are from there and forever and leaving.