Photo by Colette LaBouff.
1.
from here the earth
is a shade of the darkest
blue before black
i look out the window
and i know where we are
where the desert looks
like the ocean at night
and if the plane fell
i thought at least i’d die
in California
2.
there’s a specific memory
a feeling that comes
when the windows are open
at night
and the air is a dry
certain kind of cold
i’m in my bed at my parents’ house
it’s late and i tried to sleep
but there’s a sad movie on TV
and it feels good to be sad
right then
3.
the house i grew up in
had yellow paint peeling
to white
a too small kitchen
with a back door
a driveway
of broken asphalt
which my bare feet
always forgot
until i was outside
and running
without shoes again
4.
driving to Christmas dinner
the dry heat whipped
my hair into my mouth
but nobody could hear anybody
over the wind anyway
5.
the smell of burning
rises from the stale hillsides
to the South
acres and acres
are scorched black
the smell of smoke clings
to my hair and clothes
to the curtains and couches
throughout the house
6.
young and crying
i stood in the hallway
as my parents moved
my brother and his things
into the spare room
our father had used
as a dark room
i didn’t know
a night without him
there
in the other twin bed
i didn’t know
what night
would look like
without him lying in it
7.
the wind
is always travelling
toward me
eyes red and burning
skin drawn tight and thirsty
that is how i know
to go inside
i will feel sick soon
from the heat and the dust
8.
there is a lemon tree
in the backyard
the fruit falls rotten
to the dirt year round
the yield is too heavy
for the tree’s many arms
to hold