Saturday, April 22, 2017

el chubasco

Her parents met on fishing boats. She, the daughter of fisherman, Costa Ricans, Alaskans, Santa Cruzians, Oregonians, and I remembering when how she walked in through that door, a gentle daughter of light. How she said she was gonna go to the Women's March the next day or something. I remember last night and how close we could touch and how long and how deep and how enormous the bridging of our energy. I kissed her face this morning. She reached for me with her arm. The drunks on Sunset cried at each other as we held and melded and I got up and closed the bathroom window and then returned to her, quiet and calm