I am acutely aware of my Adam’s apple,
its bobbing motion mirroring
that of my chest and stomach as I gasp for air,
submerged in the hot waters of the soaker tub.

I lean forward to turn the heat higher
and I can’t help but notice how old I’ve become.
My tough hands have become soft gloves,
my strong legs are weak little pins,
and my back is eager to loose its burden.

I see every discoloration, every errant spot,
every crooked joint, every scar or remnant of pain.
I lean back, sink further into the water,
hoping the mist will thicken even more
and hide my eyes from my own body.

I remember
the two of us lying
under dogwood trees,
pink blossoms falling like snow
onto what I thought was love.

The sun was in my eyes
that day and every day after.

There is no need
to look back now,
I have no desire to wallow
in tears or pink snow.

I only wanted to say goodbye to you
once.

Steinbeck’s restless ghost whispers to me
as I tiptoe along a stone seawall.
He steers me away from the bay
back to the old sandstone churches
built by native hands,

back to music festivals and artisan fairs
full of mild, white cheeses
and would-be novelists arguing
about Henry Miller’s tropics.

But I’ve grown tired of his whispering
and no longer wish to dream of these things.
I would rather descend into a watery haven.
I will wave goodbye to John
and I will run down sandy paths
that lead to the sea.

I wade into the depths and sink
into a canyon where kelp shivers
in underwater breezes,
and the only stars I see will be
suction-cupped to the rocks below.

It was August, when the heat rose
as the sun stretched out its fingers
and you scrambled up the apple tree,
chasing after those last rays of summer.

I never followed, afraid of falling,
always tethered to the ground.
You teased me from your perch,
hanging upside down, your mouth
open with laughter

and oh how I wanted to touch you,
to tell you things, to kiss you.

We carved our initials
in that old gnarled tree;
“friends forever,” you said,
and we smeared blood from pricked fingers
over the living wood, sealing the pact
with a handshake and two lopsided grins

and oh how I wanted to touch you again,
to tell you things, to kiss you.

But it was August, always August,
when the fruit fell from the trees
and smoke lingered over scorched hills.
Your initials remain, carved
upon my secret heart,
though you would never chase me
like you chased after that blistering sun.

shattered snow globes
leak scenery
onto checkered linoleum

Mother comes in with the broom.
I hide behind the sofa with Cat.

–the press of your hand
on the small of my back

the taste of your sweat
mingled with cheap beer

the smell of Old Spice
on freshly shaved skin

the delicious crack of my skull
against our old headboard

the sight of your toes flexing
and curling in pleasure–

I hold onto these things
as you are letting go.

Gossamer draperies swell
with heat, eastern winds
push daylight
over tangled bodies.

Fingers travel up
and down your naked torso,
my hand caught suddenly
in yours as you stir,
a sleepy god awakened
by the warmth of morning.

Your body, a sundial,
keeps perfect time with mine;
two lovers cached in silken strands,
our sacred place now fully lit
with the hunger of summer.

The solstice lingers past its prime,
drifting over equator
and into southern skies
as autumn patiently waits
outside the bedroom door.