I am from potatoes

I am from paper and ink,
From swiffer jets and tearless shampoo
I am from a calm house on a calm street that jests at sanity as a wolf in sheep’s clothing masquerades as safe
I am from petals and sea-tumbled glass
I am from spinning stories like silk and from a river called denial
From samarah and elisabeth and bernstein bears
I am from the liars
And the lovers
From “put your hand down, you’ve answered enough” and “you’re fine”
I am from blue wax dripping down tapered candles, and the tarnished brass of the menorah, and from pine sap trickling onto unexpected fingers
I’m from Colorado, Poland, and from honey and tea
From the people who made a fake country, ruritania, a fake position, ambassador, and a fake newspaper to sneak into the Nuremberg trials and spy a bit of justice, the journal run out of a broom shack, and the boy left hiding under a porch as the masked man waltzed away whistling
I am from farmers and drinkers and laborers and strong girls and swimmers and fishermen and large laughing meals and jokes and low rates of literacy and potatoes
I am from serious conversation and politics and university degrees and hidden legacies and sons whom their fathers could never love and writers and poets and actors and singers and liars and storytellers and cooks and the wrong sort of women and potatoes
I am from potatoes, mostly