May Gold Rush
Am I a fool to dissolve in the river, to be taken
where it goes?

Where will my body be, when
you are all washed off?

I will emerge from the
water when it’s hottest and it hurts
for California Farmers to swallow.

Did you send my home grown poppies
to your other honey? Isn’t that funny,
I did too.
You never sing your songs,

but I have heard them, yes.

I have heard them!

in September

This poem will
be a little secret, but
you might end up finding out
about it because
we have been
telling each other
secrets lately.

We began with El NiƱo, learning
each other’s mouths with rain always
following us, getting to know our wet hands
sliding over our wet skin. After four months,
we dried with the grass that hugs Lake Merritt,
and the familiar become strange.

On that walk home, I hurt so bad,
and when I hit the welcome mat, there was you.
I don’t know what love is, but I think it is when
your absence becomes a dent.

I am still in the river, my
covers still smell like you, the
sun is heating up the water
and I think about crawling out into
the dead California grass,
but you take my hips and drag
me back, you say, “Mine.” and
kiss my back. I melt into the river, I
wait for the next rain cycle.