Where I’m From

I’m from pots and pans
From homemade fricase soup
and aji Colorado and mote blanco.

I’m from the quincho
the delicious smell of BBQ
and the five o’clock tea.

I’m from the tall, beautiful, superior, and protective
Georgia trees
and the orange
and yellow leaves
from the pollen on my window frame.

I’m from the coldest night of the year
up in the mountains
close to the sky
eating marshmallow,
playing guitar, shouting rocket,
jumping the camp fire,
burning old things
I’m from San Juan.



I’m from the sweet talk
Wawai
and the licensing clan,
where one tells
and is important,
from the giver and selfless.


I’m from the Merced Church
early in the morning
and the flying dove.

I’m from the mountains
the cold on your hands
and burnt cheeks.
From a long line of generations
and strong political family.

I’m from morals and stories
From, to presidents, to senators and ministers
and from equality and democracy.

I’m from the crunchy—fresh bread
Maraqueta and cheese empanadas
from hot sauce to butter.

I’m from the summer up at Yungas,
where the house stands on a mountain
and is surrounded by clouds,
right under your feet.
From the clear river flowing
and the bougainvillea flower
and the breakfast table for twenty.

I’m from running around with no shoes
and muddy clothes from yesterday.
From playing with a ball in the streets
and eating helado de canela.

I’m from the old and new photos
on my grandparents wall
polished every day,
to keep from being forgotten.