Where We Came From

My dearest laughter,

Your home in my chest became

the imaginary world beneath

childhood blankets

I tucked myself away in.

When I could not sleep

your lullaby rose like cotton from this earth

to be stitched through the wounds of

human whim

and family.

I did not need a father

to teach me how to catch you,

nor a mother

to teach me how to hold you,

and just as well.

The drumbeat clap of thunder

you struck against my ribs―

too often contained,

then―

now rumbles from the base of my

Dutch-ancestor throat;

Scottish-cackle mouth only

to make you louder.

My dearest laughter,

You did not create me

but bore me at your breast

as you told stories of war and wonder.

A veteran of humanity,

you sang of generations―

of this Daughter

and that Son―

who came before me.

Thousand-year-wrinkled hands

plucked a string for every land

my bloodlines brought together;

each chord echoing the kiss

German Jew gave to Scottish noble,

and northern Dutch gave to southern

to transcend the awkward nature

of first love,

and second language.

My dearest laughter,

Take your bow

as you pull the covers to my chin

and we fall silent.

Tomorrow, when evening comes,

I will call encore,

to sing your sweet song

and lull this medley

back to sleep.