ascension

amidst the dry hills i raced against a hundred cars. between pairs of red lights I felt shallow breaths and a tightening in my chest pulled west by a shrinking moon. I danced carefully around my old scars, lost my words to the wind. I know why I raced from you those nights. I needed her to get up in the morning the way you said you needed me. together we ignored each other's presence. I turned to cement on a cold freeway but I do not shatter when tossed about. I've got no roots to give me away. I've got no desire to stay.

every day passes through me like a window. rip shred twist spinning blade leaves a wake of grass. pairs of tennis shoes slap the pavement occasionally interrupted by a dog's bark. traffic rushes below against the stillness of the hudson. every body wants a cigarette and money for mcdonalds. we wind through the wet city streets smelling, searching, breathing. as close to silent as it gets in new york city.

in a windowless room I wrote my existence. I wrote of lazy orange sunsets and sidewalks covered in sand. fishermen who cast their lines past the rocks that lined the banks of the narrow channel, unaffected by diesel fumes from a constant parade of yachts in and out of the marina. kayakers battled to stay upright amongst the intersecting wakes of larger boats. across the water sat the area's last shred of preserved wetlands and just beyond, the tiny faded apartments and bars and cafes of playa del rey nestled quietly against the bluffs. we sat on the beach and ran our toes through the sand and watched silver 747s slowly ascend from the bluffs up into an endless pacific sky.

palm leaves nudge my arm, empty sidewalks whisper hello. I feel their hot dry santa ana breath on my neck and then a tug of ocean at my heel, relief. on the drive home grains of sand splay across my car windshield. diamonds. I find her under the shade of a palm tree, hidden from the gritty streets of venice by a faded wooden gate. she is sprawled across a bench littered with camel lights and a wrinkled copy of glamour magazine. I'm scared. That night she leans on me, tipsy from tequila shots, and i don't pull away from her touch and she notices. I used to wish i could still pretend she was different.

my grandmother died on a wednesday morning, in her room at an assisted living center. we held a service the following monday. by then the heat of the previous weekend had dissipated and left a crisp blue sky in its wake, framed by crumbling hills and coral trees.