I am from

     the place where you say how-do-you-do with
pinky fingers up sitting on a beach chair and your
toes are in the sand, digging, digging
          always digging
          for
          the green and the leaves swirling around in
the early house of the morning when i went to pick the flowers to
press out their color into bottles
            bottles
            bottled up in this space between
            two fingers never touch
            no matter how hard you push them
together while people shout your name
    to come downstairs for the platanos
       the mangu my brother devours
      and i mix around on my plate
             circling
           the world
    on a spin-cycle dryer
     the colors are wrung
           together
  what will they become
              but,
       a grey tint of the
       airplane seats in
    front of me as the river rushes through my ear
and the girl across the room drinks from the plastic capped
                   bottle
       the sun rose behind the mountain
            every day that i was born
        and the origami paper cranes
        my little fingers folded flew by
         for want of not
        knowing how to cope
        how to see what
        was beyond my
     reach-ing for the
  highest book on the shelf
  teetering on my toes
     to peek outside the wind
  and jump onto the roof
  sliding down the syllables
      of my name
with the words
    echoing in my ears
   and the notes in front
      of me
     blending
    into a sound
    i know i'll never reach
 even though I
   grasp
my efforts aren't
  devalued
by my trying
      try
      try
    try to
 understand
  the smile
that flickers
 across her
 lips when she
catches my eye
the silent third grade conversations
we could have
by banging on the lunch table