its weight. the blood trickling. refused. me . To hide in. i don’t exist. The folds rattle me. the mechanics of. the usage. Of birth. He entered. in his hands. leaning into. the. sight of. the lights. But i named it. Holy. Or rather question. my skin. my skin. Skin i. to be. Held. No. Distance my. hand. i reject. i don’t think. looking for you. And. i told you Blood
Author: Christopher Morillo
Where am I From?
by Christopher Morillo
I am from the hairbrush,
from Torino and waves.
I am from the noise coming from the hinges of my door, loud but informative.
I am from the shadows of a giant tree,
specifically the Black Locust,
I am from having Christmas with separate families
and my mother’s nose but my father’s eyes,
I’m from one who is always forgetful
and is never on time for things.
From being told as a kid that I need to go to college
and that I would be successful one day.
I am from Christianity.
I’m from Manhattan but my family is from the Dominican Republic,
and rice, beans, and chicken or Potato salad.
From not having any specific family story but having special memories,
the thought of being a family,
and the love and care we share.
I am from a loving home and wonderful family,
I am from Love.
