As my branches linger in the doorway,
I feel the weight of lives getting pulled out of suitcases, deseeded,
halfheartedly sown about the room,
the nearly worn-out attempt to rearrange the contents in yet another new space.
At this age, the likelihood of Too Late to Un-See and superb marksmanship in the dulling practice of staying up later than sanity is almost certain.
I recognize the slight dying violet shade brushed under her eyes and the soft crease between her brows.
Those limbs like oak bones coal-black against the March twilight sky.
But this is the season of sun-spilled green grass and crisp watermelon in the shade.
Time for roots to be soaking in the warmth of June,
the sweet incense of apricots looking for the spark-eyed soul willing to reach for the highest branches.
And, as my mother always said:
Never rule out the chance for a fresh breeze.
So I smile anyway.
And she smiles anyway, as well —
I catch the scent of sandalwood. Now I know —
not all hope is lost.
Some people are forest fires
Some people are redwoods —
Can’t grow unless they’re burned.
But oh, do they grow.
He sat at the table writing on the back of her hand, nodding with chopsticks sticking out of his mouth. Achilles Superstar. Rice bowl lunch, clouds. Is that so? Is that–so. Hey, New Found Lost Cause, he sat at the table writing on the back of her hand, nodding nodding nodding. New found lost cause. The chopsticks, leftover from the rice bowl he ate for lunch. Achilles: Superstar. Clouds in the back of your mind, is that so? Glory glory glory, chopsticks drumsticks on the table, kleos. Drumsticks chopping up the back room back-of-the-room table. Drumsticks, chopsticks, blood nebula, wine shopping list. “You’re usage of Blood without saying Blood is perfection.” Ah kill eez superstar, wine shopping list, without You, You & Me, clouds in the back of your mind, kleos, kaleh. Pens drums chopsticks, pens to the dirt, kleos, kaleh Superstar Spin spinning. Out of control.
Never an oceanographer; most often a photographer.
Never a photographer; mostly an oceanographer.
But you lie; sometimes you are a photographer.
And sometimes photography is oceanography.
Our teeth like eyes reflect light when they show.
Do you always just jump in like this?
Well, do you always just snap the shutter open shut like this?
His eyes glowed green.
This is why people hold hands, isn’t it.
The blue blanket flipped and roared.
I sure hope so–
We ducked under the foaming sheets,
Looking out for the place the sun sleeps.
I drive up the mountain smelling like suitcases and sandalwood
And lay my blankets on the bottom bunk in the middle bedroom.
He hands me a compass to map out the trail to Taft Point,
Unaware that I wish it could just point me to where I lost myself.