Where I Was From When I Was Seven: Bearing Down Upon The Buoy

I was from a plastic rocking horse with vicious lips and peeling hooves strung up on springs, Hershey's chocolate topping in yellow tins, and baby dolls with nylon hair matted into tough clumps.

I was from the wooden shed tucked beneath a second story deck, its air heavy and cloying, filming my skin over with its sticky humidity and swaying webwork.

I was from the aggression of bright tulips, the planted sweet peas, the crunch of dry spring grass that battered my ears as I rolled down hills.

I was from family dinners and obstinance, from Herta and Cornelia and difficult aunts.

I was from nostalgia and denial.

I was from acceptance withheld and acceptance denied.

I was from the stolid watchfulness of Mennonites and their sudden bursts of laughter out of a secretive mother tongue.

I was from Alberta and the Dnieper, round watermelons with yellow flesh and stewed plums buried beneath thick dough and sweet, heavy cream.

I was from the broken bone of the brother I forgot, the lawn that caught his fall, and the grandmother who believed.

I was from cupboarded photo albums, the worn edges of a rose-handled serving spoon, and childhood drawings filed in the back of a metal cabinet.

I was from these depths of covert love, an impulse at once held close and pushed into corners, a tug-of-war balance struck between a conservative safety and a violent adherence, the weight of salvation bearing down upon the buoy.


George Ella Lyons' poem called "Where I'm From" inspired Fred First Floyd's form, which I discovered via Sweetney.

If you write your own version of the form, come back and link to it here. I'd love to see what it inspires.

Shanan At The Regina Farmers Market

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