When I was growing up, we went to bed early. Eight o'clock, in the bed. We missed the night sky and the stars overhead. Later living in the country, lying in the yard watching the sky, floating in the water, I became part of the sky. I wanted to lie under the stars when I was dying, to disappear into the sky. Here in the city, my yard is full of trees. The streets are full of lights. I can't disappear into the sky here.
Last night I dreamed a glass table down at the end of the driveway, a table large enough for all of us to sit down and eat one of our family potlucks together. This morning, it's gone.
We are walled in by green. Ivy, oak, maple, red bud dog wood. across the street, waving bamboo. Light, dark, chartreuse, pale, dripping green.
On the way to California! Chicken bones and water bottles. Babies in the back seat. Driving through the night. Mountains and deserts. Ghost towns. Tumbleweed. Tacos in the foothills. Descending into the heat of California.
This virus is like Jones Day. A debt never owed brutally collected. Pensions, lives earned stolen by insatiable banks. Clawback: die alone. Stay home, lose your livelihood. Health insurance gone when it's most needed.
Thanks to Elena Herrada for this found poem
What should I do with this crack in my heart? Repair it like pottery, with gold.
roof top apartments we left, laughing. we shrug, unable to remember why. a crowded parking lot. waiting to get out. realizing there is danger, we drive over a curb. Turning left. short street. Do you know the way? right turn. high up in a parking lot. I hold on to yellow brick buildings as I drive and walk down the steep hill.