I am from tube socks,
bread, light bulbs
flickering awake.
Table spread. Mayonnaise. Milk. Placemats. Bathroom tile. Sink. Tub.
Clean nails I don’t bite anymore. My white knights.
All of Colonel Sanders. Popcorn.
Scratchy wool of the sheep I sheered on Grandpa’s farm
turned clean cotton of my briefs.
Silky dresses of my two princesses on Halloween 14 years ago. And sailor suits.
Standard English Language
with a white ascot and Oxford.
Blisters. Scars. Some memories.
I am from the music, dance, writing that’s white. A table or three in the lunchroom. Most of the zip codes I’ve lived in. My son’s baseball pants before the game.
A bad dunk, a bad car color, a man in a hood and cowl holding
fire in someone’s front yard:: trash. Cinderblock of too many of my classrooms.
Maybe a white angel. A white-bearded saint in a snow suit too, if you say so. The All-England Tennis Club.
Cream filling. The whites of my eyes blinking back
fears.
The priest’s white collar. The dome inside the sanctuary
where prayers turn to ether.
Above this,
the clouds of jellyfish and giraffes and big birds
hoping for spots and stripes. My faith
(our faith?)
that there is much more
to love
if we unclench our eyes, let the white smoke rise
for the real and vast to imbue the day
with all things beyond just my own.
