I am from salmon, oysters, tilapia, and lobster

Swimming, wading, sitting in the wild only to be caught

I am from a dying dialect, one so popular before

But now narrowed down to Boston’s Chinatown

I am from fresh rice, shrimp dumplings, oolong tea, and Five Spice,

But also from cilantro, menudo, and soft tacos

I am from strong spikes and perfect free throws

And from pink and red roses, but not blue

 

I am from AK-47s and tanks and planes

But also chimes and notes and harmonies

I am from steamed buns, noodles, and fresh eggs,

But also from fish, tofu, and beans gone bad

I am from combat and operas

An odd juxtaposition yet one I know so well

I am from a jumble of languages

Moving constantly, constantly

Faces all becoming one confusing blur

So contorted and misused beyond recognition

 

I am from needles, medicine, and anesthesia

From severed arms and legs

I am from a strong stomach and a steady grip

From screams then immediate silence then sobs

I am from worn out backs and droopy yet alert eyes

Beat down ironically in a place for healing

 

All before my time, my existence

I am from those moments, those times, those lives

And now

I am here

And I am inspired.