Lucia Trujillo

Where I'm From

Clara Malek

I am from crumbling hardback copies of Swiss Family Robinson, From mashed potatoes, cat hair, and a dead redbud tree I was birthed from a pile of music boxes; Their gears weaving a cacophony of lullabies I’m from the hordes of mosquitoes that ate me as I fished for leaves, And the space between tree trunks and branches. I am from the hard crackling of plastic-covered furniture The scents of Mediterranean food and the sound of accented English I came from the sound of a snapped string - pop and surprised faltering of fingers From the opening of a fresh book of music, and the scribbling of notes in the margins I carry the classic childhood scent of antiseptic and hospital hand sanitizer I am from the butterflies in the rehabilitation hospital’s garden, and the geese in a nearby pond From tan pants, red paint, and the cushions of a dark green couch. I’m from time signatures, disappointed metronomes that move in unison with disappointed eyes From the cautionary teaching that practice makes permanent, not perfect I am from eyes that burn at midnight, under flickering lights. My home is among plastic Sunday school chairs and animal crackers, Dunked in water. Tchaikovsky, Gershwin, CDs of Latin chants and the scent of an eraser. I am from knitting needles and tangled yarn, tangled hair But I am ultimately from a room of broken mirrors Ever reflecting Questioning Twisting Watching as my actions ripple through the layers And wondering if it’s really me.