California Poem

For Pasha (who I never call that)

 

That is the way you like to look at me, California.

When you have taken the sentence,

half out of my throat, and I suck

on your finger instead. I know you

can see me there, California.

 

Through your eyelashes,

in the dark.

 

Oh California! Miles upon miles

of asphalt. Oh, bouquets of perfect legs!

Your sands hide fake diamonds,

your coves are like Barbie feet.

 

You people my dreams with strangers

and release amnesia in your sunlight.

Your nights are ridged as muscle shells

by the intoxicated laughter of sea lions.

 

Your palm trees are crazy scepters

made to look like friendly penises.

They line the streets like soldiers,

erect and numb.

 

Just like you, California,

like you.

 

Even your dirt is a priori, California,

a priori of death. Let’s go shopping, California!

Let’s play tennis or get abortions!

Take my memories, California--

 

dash my little ones against the rocks.

 

That’s just the way you like to look at me, California:

Through you eyelashes,

like spider legs,

through your lovelessness,

in the dark.

Comments

[Beckie Redford]

I've been reading poetry all afternoon. This one is the best I've read. And just because you sum up Southern California neatly with tennis and abortions, or that I had an 'Ah, ha' moment with palm trees. You are an amazing writer, Rufi Cole.