I am from the beehive,

from the call of swamp frogs

on damp August nights.

I am from my grandmother’s

hand mirror, and her

soft Russian accent

(Thick and sweet –

like love.)

I’m from piroshky

and pelmini dumplings.

I am from women,

and other living things.


I’m from a long gravel road,

a fence lined pasture,

and fresh cut wood

whose fiery sparks burn holes

in the hearth rug.

I am from the climbing vines

of sugar snap peas,

from patches of wild strawberries

and broken terra cotta.

I’m from the blackest watermelon seed,

and from bales of the greenest alfalfa.


I’m from rock salt and the labyrinth,

the dark woods just beyond our boundary.

I’m from “Never depend on a man.”

and “Build a brick wall.”

I’m from brooding night skies,

and wide open windows.

I’m from the rifle buried

beneath my winter clothes.

I’m from panic and haste.

I am from the hornet’s nest.



© Elle Wonders 2014–2016

(Format riffed from George Ella Lyon)