It’s crow-skulking weather, cockroach winter, season of crickets scattering the linoleum when you pour the midnight milk. Earthquake insomnia, tax-deadline heat wave, Easter and the grass already brown or it’s two hawks perpetually circling my head like one thought remembering and another forgetting. It’s a blood moon rising, a crescent slung in the birches, cypresses bent horizontal as a flotilla of wind cross-hatches the street with palm fronds and burger bags. These are the mud-in-the-gutter days, red river of topsoil roiling toward storm drains, a 3am mechanical din rumbling under the city like a spent power cord. It’s a fog of orange groves grafted onto the roots of wild lemons, a canvas of smog erasing the horizon. Green sky parrot morning, coyotes yipping in the cul-de-sac; days we begin by breaking, as into a glass, the meaningless tumble of moment and memory, what despair will it be when I know what you are?

Courtesy: Rosemary Donahue

Courtesy: Rosemary Donahue



Courtesy:  Mariell Amelie

Courtesy: Mariell Amelie

We are spent throwing woe at you 
our empty rivers and tireless swoon,
not the absence of sound exactly
but a wood ash swishing in the walls.
I’m sleepy and it’s a lovely blue
hush in the desert
you’ve nothing to do with
except tonight you are super,
got your silver cape on
and the horizon is a pop song
because we need to believe in every giant.
Oarfish, semaphore, tornado-come-wheeling
over the plain.
I’ve pulled you on my thin leash.
Child face pressed against car window,
woman face at the bedroom glass.
How I wanted to be watched
by a country of nothing
believe you pull my blood
with your stone’s consciousness.
This evening I walked into the ER
and you were there rising
in three languages
on the closed captioned tv.
It was standing room only,
no one checking out,
the clacker of panic, code red.
Supermoon, super terrible loneliness,
I am sorry to report we are unraveling,
screens bleating in our palms
and we’ve broken the ocean, 
the birds are missing because the fish are missing,
the sailor with his empty net in the air wailing
how there was nothing to catch, no gullsong
carrying a deserted sea.
The woman next to me in triage:
My mother has schizophrenia and
my grandmother has schizophrenia,
now I don’t have it but these four people
inside me are trying to kill me.

Dragging our ruins, staring collective
in fluorescent light,
we need a heroine,
need a mirror to see
what we’ve lost.                                             
Lumina. Howl. The rugged
pocked promise of your emptiness
in our nets, our flashing hands.