I’m spending the week at a cabin on the Klamath River in Northern California, where a summer storm surprised us on Monday. It’s beautiful here, but dry thunder—and dry lightning—are very ominous in this rugged, mountainous region prone to wildfires. The weather seemed to echo my sense of dread from the political news.
Today we remember you.
And will always remember you,
Even though we said many goodbyes
These past years.
It happened one time, then again;
I am certain whatever it indicates—
embarrassment, or maybe
he’s unearthed quietly
the fact that I am difficult
to love, and responds
in the only reasonable way he can—
the new exchange cemented itself
into our routines around the time
of the divorce.
we ran out shrieking
leaving our mark as
footprints in the sand
only stopping to
plant our keys on the fence
like a flag on the moon
Come walk with me through the bones of this bustling city.
Time hedges its bets in the spit-spatter of this hustling city.
On the streets, fragrance is rampant. Catharsis of us, strained
through the finely-woven forgetfulness of this muslin city.
My son asks me how can I run the same
mile-long loops through the woods every day
and not be bored and I tell him it’s different—
every time.