I’m from dirt roads where pickup trucks roam. 

fire ants ramble, searching for a little girl to pinch.

I’m from a man with a cowboy hat, sans southern drawl. 

I’m from a woman, tormented by her past until she found him.

I’m from warm springs and boiling summers.

I belong here. 

Now I’m from the icy pavement where costly cars crawl.  

Now I’m from nights of masks and candy 

that could not be met without a jacket and gloves.

Now I’m from a kitchen reeking of bleach,

vases stand untouched.  

Pretend that you belong here.

He’s from sidewalks paved with salt, 

expensive schools, and cooking mothers. 

He’s from a temperamental father who

could never dig a hole for the hatchet. 

He’s from a world that he has tried to recreate, 

yet the walls still crumble— 

but that’s where he’s “from.”

Still, I do belong here.

I’m from biting frost and Badger jeers 

John Wayne hats still slung in the back shed

that is where they will stay

but our hearts remain in

The Lone Star State.