I am from Ian Rohr’s chunky class ring, slid on my finger in a dark movie theatre, from secret paperbacks in the nightstand and steaming water filling the bathtub. I am from the dust under the sofa, dulling wooden floorboards. I am from the crimson dahlias growing along the park fence, the hungry mandevilla whose wilting blossoms I long for as if their thirst were my own.
I’m from legs spread before dawn, with still-closed eyes still dreaming, and hands clasped to willing wrists pressed tight against cotton sheets. From Nancy Friday and Violet Blue. I’m from ink stained knuckles and bit thighs turned indigo then yellow, from the hem of my pink silk camisole brushing my clit with every one of his moves.
I’m from Come on me, and Come with me, and Please, baby, please. I’m from fingers under waistbands pulling shine over skin. I’m from privacy and Cherokee, from lemon twists and sugared rims. From riding backwards, hands on taut thighs watching toes contort with every pulse of my center, every roll of my hips, every gasp; from journal pages filled dense then torn out and ripped small, trusted only to the deep green dumpster bound for a mountain of withering.
Photo: Carl Larsson Model writing postcards 1906; Public Domain
This is from a template inspired by George Ella Lyon’s poem “Where I’m From”.