*

*

I am from the Light,

the book tells me.

I thought I was from Los Angeles

sprawling city of smoggy skies,

the sharp edges of Bermuda grass

*

I am from Perfect Love

pages proclaim, but

I recall a dusty field edged by citrus trees

where I hid from the sun

in a cool cement pipe

*

I am from Absolute Truth

in words of prayer

while the scent of my father’s tobacco,

my mother’s Chanel No. 5

floated above parquet floors

*

I am from Spirit

in the Sabbath song, but

I hear Sunday’s swish of sprinklers,

the rumble of a lawn mower,

dogs barking in the kennel