I am from the front porch, from Windex and
            “See yourself in the shine!”

I am from screens that let in the breeze
            and kept out the flies, grid like,
                        almost transparent, looking at
                                    the world through dragonfly wings.

I am from the purple stain of the orange-red poppy
            on prickly stem, tiny dancers
                        twirling, whirling darkly in the orb of ink.

I am from trips to Ball Mountain, arguing
            at the tops of our lungs, from George
                        and Sam, from Nell Scott and
                                    the Purple Gang.

I am from being ripped into and fiercely
            protected by the Puckett Clan.

I am from suffering fools—not lightly—and
            being accountable.

I am from spitting, foaming-at-the-
            mouth Freewill Baptists, spewing
                        scriptures to suit their own purposes.

I am from Royal Oak, Michigan, transplanted
            to Dog Branch Gap, Dickenson County,
                        Virginia, unsweetened
                                    iced tea washing down
                                                fried chicken.

From beneath the heart of my mother,
            strangled like the child before me;
                        just as surely as the cord
                                    tightened around her neck,
                                                her legacy stifled me.