Mine is not from the morass of Flanders’
marshes, although their hues ink my eyes.

Not from a mother: her head spun, always,
away.

Nor from convent walls or kisses I hid — 
head bowed — inside my childhood palms 
to quiet longing. Such longing.

But from a Flemish farmer, once, 
who held my face in both hands to kiss 
my brow for no more than a second — 

that brief — but with such will & tenderness 
that I can now lift my head far back, 
to read the clouds.  

I’m from the ocean’s melancholy, dragging
its anchors back & forth, never quiet, never 
still, waves so restless they can’t mirror the moon.

I am from those waters, those ebbings.
From the two wedding bands on my finger,

from them too — & from every book I ever held: 
my shelved provenance, language womb & sail.