Poem: Where I'm From

[Regina Shepherd]

Please enjoy this piece from my collection, Lalibela:

 

Where I’m From

 

Where I’m from we make the love.

 

We live.

Sometimes falling

always walking in.

Seasoning with fine herbs:

sautéing,

marinating,

frying,

stewing,

boiling,

baking,

or

just plain cooking.

 

The sorrows work their 9-5 and

on Fridays we send them home early.

We play the songs, move the furniture

and make the fun.

Or we go outside

to spread good airs,

laughter and body movements.

Kids run, preoccupied with children things.

Teens dance, adults look on and the elderly nurse little beer bottles.

 

And when the time comes for in-love

we walk in just the same.

Caught by cuteness or by spunk.

Phone calls connect and then eventually do hands.

Then do the bodies.

Babies come or the drama. Maybe both and always with laughter.

 

And when there are no radios,

we sing the songs.

 

When I feel displaced, so does my imagination sing.

 

Now when you come to me,

accusing of falling

I be confounded.

 

Knowing only a love that gives, is practical and sacrificing,

my ear reacts also strangely to your ‘sweet-nothings.’

 

Your tellings of ‘unborn loving’.

Love that has no legs – leaving me to wonder how we would

make the journey.

Ultimately me resolving in late hours to carry.

 

The love I know means dishwashing, cleaning, sick nights and strong

debating and hugging,

quiet conversations.

 

The love I know has hands and wings

hands and wings

and all the other practical things.

 

Finally, the love where I live is always walking in.

 

So I wonder, when looking across to you,

why at my doorpost you remain standing.

Fearing forward,

to figure out whether you have grazed your knee

or are remembering that you left something on your own stove back home,

still cooking..