Poetry

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They come back to you as a signwhen someone dies, they say, a dragonfly,some dull moth skimming a mud puddle,a hummingbird in the ditch’s goldenrod.But what if they are alive? But not allowedto live? How do they return, then? Cricketunder the sink for three nights straight.Why do we call it a song? That scraping,that needy …

We once drove 900 miles—from California to Idaho—in a borrowed car, the dead-drench of summerslicking our skin with its own salt, to witnessan eclipse’s totality. The darkened sun, the skypunched through. We barely made it, but didon duct tape & faith. Bear with me. I know how easyit is to forget a journey for all …

What if we are birds?Does that mean we also standon wires, tenderly, weightless.Are we in front ofor behind the red-tailed hawk?The last bird must watch us die.

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I was in a cheerful mood, so I went to the zoo at the edge of the city. I laughed at a comic book with the idyllic zebras. I slow-danced to Chopin with the lavish gorillas. I sang a Spanish ballad to the stylish flamingos. At the end of the visit, I took a much-needed …

I was at a hidden local beach in Southern California away from the tourist traps of Santa Monica and Huntington Beach. The sun was shining but it wasn’t overwhelming; it was still early in the morning. That’s when I saw a flying jaguar in the late spring sky. It approached the sand and landed a …

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