Pages of a Book

A Poem

Adina Bader

I am from the pages 

of a book

from the high book shelf upstairs,

from the hair mousse and 

the pomegranate body wash.

I am from the high windows

in the living room.

(Open, clear

it feels like the sun is cooking you.)

I am from the butterfly bush,

the Japanese maple

whose long gone limbs I remember

As if they were my own.

I’m from pull-a-parts and brown hair,

from Arlene and Mathew.

I’m from the short-tempered-when-not-quiet 

and the arrive-really-early-or-arrive-really-late,

from the nose-in-book.

I’m from put your hair up and out of your face,

and don’t forget your soccer ball,

and Shema Yisrael.

I’m from naps Saturday afternoon.

I’m from East Brunswick and Europe,

grandma’s cake and chicken-not-chicken soup.

From the monster in the sink,

who ate 

my older brother Johnny.

On the bookshelf in the living room

where the photo albums rest.

Containing the long-ago past,

the memorable present,

the possible future–

the blank unknown.