All My Treasures
Going south, we left the fog
and our two bicycles. Squirrels skeletal
black, our earth being hurriedly rearranged
by the moles, the pink ginger magnolia. My mahogany
boots and bedside water. Our shape in the known bed.
In Los Angeles we lingered in brief rain,
got towed and drank bottles of turmeric
that stung like real insects. The budding lump
of the fight. The head of the fight. Its boil-like
eye. Somewhere through the valley it was like
dancing, my moon mood that dangled and swayed.
Our huddle and drift. The tumult, then the clamber
on the brink. Cabin-pressured car air, stale
with the smoke of our grey coats. All my treasures
slipping like fish down the hole in the pocket.
Everyone moving coolly
in their car, the universe of
the car, its heated seats like a travelling flame.
The river of sound
on the freeway, its dark shapes
wholly its own. In the desert, you stood
in front of a cave, its mouth black and wet. From it,
a rustling. A deep and stirring breath, the origin
unknown. Dawn after dawn we woke
with the orange stripe still cut open on the horizon.
The pebble-colored sheets. Deepening fear of being
witnessed in the dark. Lone pigeon with a torn wing,
thrashing against the wall. The newness of a joined life, its tender
prods, its raw and opening skin. It was like being rubbed
apart again and again, every light in my body on.