I am from a steel rose

Brick brownstones, glass skyscrapers—

windows reflective of the gum-splattered concrete below—

clustered like petals after a rainstorm. 

I am from skies the color of a dime, 

President worn and jaded from years of denim upon denim, pockets upon purses. 

I am from the bud that blossomed into jasmine, 

continued to bloom even after its roots were ripped from the desert and

meticulously replanted in northern New Jersey. 

I am from index cards with faded writing revealing family recipes, 

the remnants of what they didn’t leave behind, 

the sloping script punctuated with dustings of sumac 

and za’atar. 

I am from the jars of brined grape leaves that line the walls of the Armenian store, 

like the canvas-bound books that perch on the shelves at the library,

where I sit in solitude yet am never truly alone.

I am from light: 

the fluorescents of the local ice cream shop,

congregated candles at church, 

a lone lamppost to illuminate late-night summer walks with friends. 

I am from the remainders of fond memories—

the sand that clings to your feet, 

the salt that sails on the breeze, 

the bonfire smoke, aromatic and leathery, that lingers in your hair—

long after the day has receded. 

I am from many worlds, many realms,  

woven together into a patchwork quilt

and stitched, delicately, around my soul.