An Origin Poem
I come from the graveyard
freshly walked. My little hands
worked to clean the stones
long forgotten.
Gathered dandelions now lay as
presents to the friends I’ve made.
“You only know their names,”
my grandmother would say.
But I knew more than that. Simple epitaphs
adorned each stone:
soldier, mother, daughter, pastor.
I come from the cornfield
freshly watered. My little hands
could never reach high enough
to take the tassel from the top
of each husk.
It was my job.
I couldn’t do it.
I’d return to my grandfather’s house
dripping wet with dew and defeated.
I quit that job.
I come from the woodpile
freshly cut. My little hands
couldn’t hold up the axe. I watched
my grandfather cut each log.
“Let me do this,” he would say.
“You’ll cut off your toes.”
I knew it hurt him, though,
each swing, each movement.
I come from secrets
freshly sewn. My little hands
work to piece together puzzles:
Why did she do that?
Why did he do that?
Who are you?
Then who am I?
Yet I go towards these
things always cherished:
The epitaphs to read.
The corn to pick.
The wood to cut.
The secrets to protect.
They are Imagination,
Support, Warmth, and Mystery.
That is family.
This is love.
-Shelby Denhof
