where I come from-- torn hems and gaudy books,
worn in the clutches of summer air and
read under covers with night seeping through my bedroom window.
I come from split pea soup in frozen bags, thawing at seven o'clock.
I come from orange peels and cinnamon, during Christmas;
powdery chalk, and homemade popsicles under the burning sun;
apple juice popsicles, running down our fists, onto the blacktop.
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