I come from a bomb shelter
made with a lining of books.
I come from a place where
metaphors are served
for breakfast.
I come from a house where people
would run to save a shelf
in case of a disaster.
I come from a place where
we weep to pages instead of
pillows.
I come from a childhood where
words melted in my mouth more
often than cotton candy.
I come from a place where we
popped verses like sleeping pills
on a tough night;
Religiously and a little too many.
So don’t ask how I turned to poetry.
How could I not?