hard carmine

lace trimmings scatter the floor. chantrelles chopped in the kitchen, the waiting butter sizzles. coffee: not strong enough. chris isaac moans while a bronzed woman wraps her legs around him, wraps her arms around the palm tree where he swans; he is lost in the throes of her bare chest. outside, oakland is bathed in sunlight. dress trimmings multiply on the bright floor. dough for morning biscuits rises in a bowl and the kettle screams and rattles over quaking blue flame. the girls and i paint our nails deep red that dries hard carmine. out come the pictures. somewhere, monday traffic seethes on the 580. daniel cups his head in his hands, bemoans at&t. it is the worst break-up i've ever had, he cries.

what looks like a speck in the sky is really ten thousand light years. that's all i can tell you about how much, about how far. what is the shape of ten thousand light years? the thickness? a ribbon of light, a reflection against nothing, a gentler burn on the retina, one wish on the first dead thing you see.

garbage accumulates under the overpass by my house. it takes on shapes and characteristics, vaguely human. it builds on itself, then blows across the street and sidewalk only to cluster again. the homeless rustle in their sleepingbags. they pull up their pants and tie them on. the leaves fall and make explosive noises underfoot.

boarded up windows and derelict lots, signs hang as the only evidence to the saw factory or maxwell's sophisticated clothing for men. a ten year-old with corn rows asks her "what are you looking at, stupid slut?" i think "that's my neighbor, who taught him to talk like that?" bodies surge in and out of mac arthur bart. they cluster and disperse. various buses shuttle them from emeryville to downtown to the hospital and back again. bits of garbage trail in their wake.

on sunny mornings, i sit in the yard under the lemon tree and let the sun burn my shoulders and neck. i open my book in the crook of my legs and cradle the scalding mug of tea in my palms. i read until my head and eyes throb with the heat and the brightness. red marks blossom across my chest. the downstairs neighbor laughs maniacally.

we keep the old photographs in a fishbowl.

we leave at dawn and drive nonstop to yosemite, where we park under bridalveil falls. we unload and move our pads from rock to rock. we scale, descend, scale, descend. ryan and patty take care of the talking, i watch with my head craned back and the wind dressing my hair with leaves. the wind blows in cool and hot gusts, something about a microclimate. chalk flutters off their hands. flecks of white on our legs and cheeks. something so delicate. the granite is dry and trees drag against themselves and sway, the sunlight anoints the sheer rock faces of the valley. at night, all we see are the stars and the reflection of the moon off the water as it cascades from the horizon to the valley floor.

my lungs are a furnace in the freezing night; they open and the cold pours in, they contract and the night pulls closer. i grapple with the icy granite, steam pours from my nostrils and rises off of my shoulders. blood over your knuckles and under your nails, the ankle dashed between the rocks that swells like a tear, that swells hot and seems to undulate. that teeters. we don't stay-- lines on the asphalt, chased down and laid to rest like the leapt rabbits and deer that populate the shoulder. pines rise up. the granite rises up. it is your nature to be tall and straight, hard and strong. it is your nature to grow to be one hundred feet tall on the side of a mountain.

when everyone goes, i open the window and let down my hair, i don't focus on anything.