Going Home
Catalina
captivates
amidst the
vastness of the Pacific.
The mirrored
patches of water
ripple like a
wrinkled bed sheet,
Its cerulean and
pthalo blues
the color of a
time I used to paint.
The particles of
light dance
like a flurry of
snow,
spiritual,
godly, holy.
Like the first
time I gave myself fully
to him, when it
was
making love.
The patterns of
land and houses,
roads winding
their way to
the white sandy
strip of shore.
The mountains
fold like soft
hand-made paper
letters written
but never sent.
Ascending into a
cloudless sky,
streets grow
faint.
Mere lines of a
hand,
a Greek god’s
print upon the
surface of the
Earth,
creases left
from my pillow
after a deep
sleep.
A desert now,
empty and
endless.
The plane windows
shake
conjuring dreams
of death,
serpents and old
floor boards,
rotted and damp,
Unstable like a
broken heart.
The shadows below
are dark,
but not black,
a deep
depression.
Like a cancer it
cradles me,
cold arms an
illusion of
safety and
strength.
Long, thin
branches of crevices,
As if painted on
a canvas.
Succulents
enduring,
like the memory
of summer,
when it still
had the scent of
coconut oil.
The artificial
pools of blue appear,
crowded by tiny
rooftops.
The same
expected decent
into a hopeless
grid.
Always waiting
for him to change,
as if somehow he
could shed his skin
like a desert
snake.
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