not heavy enough
I imagine buffing the East Coast sky with a sander
to make it bigger and softer
it’s so sharp and small compared to the West Coast
in current assessment
the Tri-State Area is my black yin dot
to my white yang California teardrop
every other storefront on Mission Street is under construction
no more Thrift Town no more dollar store no more Goodwill
peeling painted signs on unlit windows
defeated shells encasing dusty construction tableaux
still a dirt-caked man sparking an already blackened crack pipe
half beneath a soiled floral comforter on the threshold of the A.A.
still an ice blue pinpoint eyes woman staring from her throne
swaddled in too many layers of clothing like a queen
I get on the subway, it rolls east out of sad and pretty painted SF
which is close but not quite my home
in the moment between the train coming up from underwater
and into West Oakland station
I see the line of yellow poplar trees, unreal, the Emerald City painted on the backdrop
that marks the apartment on Henry Street where my sister my mom and I lived
just a flash of the red-brown roof, a flash of dappled sun glinting on green grass
in the park at the end of our street, the end of the bottom of the Lower Bottoms
this view is the closest I ever get to that figment
I can’t confirm if it’s real
Mom gave me the corner bedroom in the trees after Lucia moved out
it’s dark wood wainscoting hemmed me in
solitary princess in a twin bed
yellow shimmer-disk leaves in the windows
towards the end of us living there we were more and more like dolls in a dollhouse
the clean particularity of our possessions
sparseness indicating the death of something
the Three Women dynamic that bound us
we would never exist in that configuration again
Mom and I were increasingly quiet and spacious with one another
cheap comforting smell of Suave shampoo
all of our household essentials came from the big dollar store on 7th street
I took lots of baths in the tiny tub
skipped school often just to draw and make cup after cup of jasmine tea
clear enamel Victorian hand mirror
iron bust of a clown with a lever arm to slide coins into his mouth
painted Buddha and smiling flamenco doll
the objects that fleshed out our home were suddenly too flimsy
not heavy enough to add up to a permanence
I played guitar in the early morning before school
she listened through the door blocked by a desk that connected the two bedrooms
when I left it would be impossibly quiet
she must have felt the need to put the last of that era out of its misery
to whip up a whirling shit storm
rather than see me off
forever retracing the paw prints pinpointing the x marks the historic
spots on the map of mega chapters
when God shook out the landscape like a blanket
She let it fall the first time so wrinkled
as to make mountains, lakes, oceans, etc.
then She threw us down in the sand
where we like to flop
I would wear that white dress
if I was Ferrante’s Lila or Lenu and getting married
of course we are though
each other’s Blue Fairy
tan bums watch us walk
demand a personalized smile in their direction
Haha fuck you
rag dolls on the beach in all of our clothes
Not As In Final
One of those boxes is her resting place not as in R.I.P. but like she naps there
