FIRE SEASON Meanwhile the motorcycles churr down Pacific Avenue, revved and ready to head north up highway one, past the rough surf and golden cliffs, past small towns held together by roadside restaurants serving up burgers and artichoke bisque. Just look at the pelicans hanging low on the late-day wind above the corrugated line of the horizon. It's the season of fire, but all I can see is water. Water running out as far as the stitched hem of sky. An epoch of water laying low under the white capped waves. I have wanted to live in this Paradise forever, to dwell here on this cracked continental edge inhaling the fragrance of salt and seaweed, stepping on the loose gravel leading down to the shore, waters in which I was baptized by a wild froth of surf that filled my eyes, my ears, my mouth as I tumbled shoreward. If I belong anywhere, it's here on this scorched rib of field leading to the sand. Walcott once said The frame of human happiness is time. Then frame me here, caught in the early days of autumn, in this late era, a hint of smoke lingering in the air. Santa Cruz, California, 2022 NOCTURNE The past is a country of darkness, its long nights and arctic sun, slung low over the horizon. The young woman you were, rising early, washing up the dishes left in the sink, attending to the kettle's high-pitched wail. You can't go back there, even as a passenger, can't ride the night rails to find yourself locked in that long-ago on loop-- the drive to the hospital and back, the child still caught mid-seizure, the doctor with the telepathic touch, leaning over him with a needle to pierce his invisible veins. How long will we stay there, trapped in that tableau? Time, honeyed and slow, the nurse setting out the warm towels, the man in the next cubicle yelling, "You can't make me!" in his torn voice, his feral beard pointing north. What is it I want? What is it I keep forgetting? Look at the nurse, her blue scrubs, her small, pearl earrings. The doctor's pressed shirt and placid brow. As if we'd all arrived dressed for the occasion of death. Look at my son's black hair. See how we hover there at the edge of it, the stars, barely visible through the window, small specks ticking the dark, fixed in place. Excerpted from Blade by Blade by Danusha Laméris All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
