EMILY ALEXANDER
Here in California
the light is thickly retreating this evening I left my phone I am tired
of making funny jokes with my thumbs also everyone I know
mom roommate old love who asks how my day was it is warm
enough to walk alone at night maybe farther sometimes
I forget how close the ocean is then surprise! there in the distance
a slit in freeway fabric it unravels me so gladly I wrap
my hands in my shirt sleeves I wrap my shirt sleeves
in my pockets in my pocket is the cork I kept miles ago to remember
the wine at Lodgepole we liked the spot
by the window best we could see all the people we loved
waving to us on their way home I wore this coat
a dress you said wasn’t too short when I turned and turned
for you in the purple house the iced-over back porch though
it was and I haven’t worn it since tonight
the parking meters lift their strange faces towards the sun very quietly
I say hello to each one I meant to tell you something funny
that happened but I forgot what it was today was good
I mumble to the wheel-stained curb the wind the rattled
grate under tires it’s all a lot to hold in love guess what persimmons
citrus fruit grow through winter imagine my excitement here
in the grocery store hands so full I start dropping things.
of making funny jokes with my thumbs also everyone I know
mom roommate old love who asks how my day was it is warm
enough to walk alone at night maybe farther sometimes
I forget how close the ocean is then surprise! there in the distance
a slit in freeway fabric it unravels me so gladly I wrap
my hands in my shirt sleeves I wrap my shirt sleeves
in my pockets in my pocket is the cork I kept miles ago to remember
the wine at Lodgepole we liked the spot
by the window best we could see all the people we loved
waving to us on their way home I wore this coat
a dress you said wasn’t too short when I turned and turned
for you in the purple house the iced-over back porch though
it was and I haven’t worn it since tonight
the parking meters lift their strange faces towards the sun very quietly
I say hello to each one I meant to tell you something funny
that happened but I forgot what it was today was good
I mumble to the wheel-stained curb the wind the rattled
grate under tires it’s all a lot to hold in love guess what persimmons
citrus fruit grow through winter imagine my excitement here
in the grocery store hands so full I start dropping things.
EMILY ALEXANDER is a writer and editor in Oakland. She has had poems published or forthcoming in Up the Staircase Quarterly, Blood Orange Review, and Hobart Pulp.