Original Sin

I am from
the split cleft of a mixed
palate that burns with salt, open wound.

I am from 
blackberry-bitten legs
streams of iodine and undone laundry.

I am from 
ducks, dead in the road, from 
cement, RapidDry, polyvinyl.

I am from 
reduced daffodils and 
yellow walls and grease stains, yellowing.

I am from
the pilgrims who travelled
over their spines, from forbidden fruit. 

I am from 
a mother who carried 
me like scuffed elbows or a melon. 

I am from 
original sin a 
knee can no longer hold, from wanting.

I am from
pips black as flies and 
holding two cracked fists, joined in prayer.

I am from 
the playground rock house, the 
safest place, and missed in a tailspin.

© A.T. 2020