Where I’m From (Katie)

My grandfather made us 

dollhouses 

with six wallpapered rooms and 

an attic the width of our wingspan then 

We played back to back 

in the back 

of my sister’s closet 

which was itself an attic 

I remember the tiny plywood chair 

I could’ve crushed in my palm 

hot glue spilled forever into one of its 

corners

the stain my grandpa used to make it

formal 

not quite reaching the lip 

the lip on which sat the mother doll whose blonde 

hair was as wild and natural as my mother’s was 

neat and dyed

It was a big project 

for an old man 

He made us a seesaw too 

When my sister was up 

overseeing our suburban street

in the Southern Tier of New York 

(the New York I do not go back to) 

I was down

eyes on the grass 

keeping watch for the snakes 

that my dad and I had exiled from our garage 

flinging them, like my sister was me, 

up into the air

where they didn’t belong