by Caroljean Gavin
In the palm of my hand I harbor
Fault lines, one-way streets,
A famous bridge half-crossed and
Another I steered from the passenger’s seat
While the driver smoked weed
Such honking dreams in the patchouli,
Of frolicking unhindered, of
Slapping my feet in my Sunday shoes
Down my aunt’s hardwood hallway.
The earthquakes always come.
I’ve cracked off into the ocean.
Every day’s dawn yawns a
Salty horizon, and the fog rises off the water
And the fog rides into town, and the fog bowls me down,
And sits on my chest, reading off a checklist of regrets
I am so thirsty
And my irises are turning gray and
It never snows in San Francisco no matter what
The souvenirs say.