I am from orange peels
From a dated, green conversation-pit
I’m from a collective over-one-hundred years
From the town over in New Jersey
A stone’s throw from the wedding reception
Kneaded from flour into a suggestable dough
I am from the warming drawer
From tenement walls
From the McDonald’s drive-thru
on Roswell Road
I am from the orange in the stocking
The beigest of living rooms
An Ina Garten cookbook
The lazy-susan christmas-cactus
Hatikvah sung over the loudspeaker
The blood spilled by our so-called
Holy hands
These are so much more than hands.
