I m from

I’m from Moscow winters, mud mixed with snow,
    from the hands of the clocks that were moving too slow,
from the hole in the fence of the school where I went,
    from the grip of the girl that was holding my hand,
from Shakespeare, Nietzsche, Pushkin and Brodsky,
    from Nabokov, Kerouac and Mayakovsky,
from the dust on the bookshelves turned gold in the light,
    from cigarette smoke that dissolved in the night…
and the country that nursed me that dissolved in my sight…

From the dirt on the asphalt, the sun on my back,
    from the triple-threat stance: pass, shoot and attack,
from the chains on the rim that I couldn’t yet reach,
    from the summers I’ve spent with my dog at the beach,
from the bully at school that tested my patience,
    from the music that blasted from the radio station,
from the choices I’ve made and felt no regret,
    from poems I’d write every night before bed…
to the poems I’d hide every night in my head…

From the back of the building where my idol smoked pot,
    from the same building lobby where my teammate got shot,
from the image I saw when I looked at myself,
    from the ghetto I loved and the ghetto I left,
from the college in Waltham where I searched for my place,
    from the girl in my math class that I started to chase
from the library steps, from the innocent glance,
    from the ring on her finger and her hand in my hands
to the moment where everything froze in suspense…