from the north/the low clouds float/
single-file/ heading south along
I-75 like a slow army of fluff
it’s late April and snow’s predicted for tonight
i want to be a weatherman in my next life/wrong
or right/you keep your job and there’s no recourse
when i look up/the sky slowly moves over me
and i envision the cloud soldiers in those gray transports
smoking a cigarette/drinking a glass of rainwater/
chewing on hail chips/joking around/saying prayers/pleas
to a silent god to let them live another day
isn’t that what we all want/?/another chance
to get it right or at least not screw it up so much
this time/i won’t turn my back
and walk away without a glance
this time/i’ll tell you exactly how i feel//
i’ll run into your arms and lift
you in the air/swing your legs around/
both of us laughing and kissing and collapsing
in the field
this time/i’ll realize everything///in some strange way///
is a gift
– David James
Author’s Note: The older I get, the more I want a second chance in life—to go back, knowing what I know now, and have a re-do.…
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Go forward, up the long sloping hill of heat-baked, late afternoon sidewalk, besides two car lanes split by lush traffic islands—toward the dizzying summit. Then stagger over into another world beyond.
For this Santa Valeria neighborhood holds Southern California homes of casual wealth and quiet opulence. Not the garish, built-up mansions near the Mission, nor the sprawling, mostly dark estates embedded high in the foothills that semicircle the downtown grid.
She knows these houses belong to the every day rich, who drive their own cars, buy groceries, and live their own life—to the extent that they possess one.
“Gabriela? Oh my god, that’s so lovely.” Young married women, her employers have told her this. Jealous, saddled with names like Alexis or Skyler or Jen. One even said, “I wish it was my name, but friends would call me Gabby.…
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You cannot force someone to comprehend a message they are not ready to receive. Still, you must never underestimate the power of planting a seed. – unknown.
I’ve always liked Coonties.
They are hardy. They are green all year.
Once established, they don’t take much care.
Still, they have to be properly introduced to the soil conditions at this unique place.
When I got my first coonties, I dug a hole for each of them, just a bit wider and deeper than their little root balls.
I put water and fertilizer in the hole and placed them in it.
Soil filled the gap between the roots and the sides of the hole. The good stuff.
It was meant to give them the best possible chance at a full life.…
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Perhaps I am not who I think–
the one who would wish
to disappear before your eyes.
What I want is the power
to stretch time,
cheat death,
be always beside you,
throw wide the doors
and walk through.
But then, there is the task of planting lilacs
and I recall my 6 year old self
hidden in the stand of sweetness
perched on the metal lid:
LEVITTOWN – the septic tank.
Oblivious and still.
Nine years flying coast to coast,
five hours in limbo each time,
the calm as I settled in my seat,
cabin door closed.
a portal to no time,
the clock turning back:
a book, a pen, a glass.
Teleportation would have stolen
the time beside my mother
as she drove me to countless dance classes
after working two jobs and cooking dinner–
and what of our penniless honeymoon,
driving ourselves across plains into mountains–
silence, music, our own private humor.…
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Ling comes back from the bar with another Four Roses for me. “That bartender is busier than a one-armed paper hanger,” he says, then looks for my reaction, which is part of the lesson for him. “What does it mean?”
It’s Tuesday night so I’m in the West Gate answering Ling’s questions about English he’s heard watching TV shows and movies. I’ve learned that some lessons are more enjoyably taught under the influence, so we’ve worked it out that Ling pays me in drinks.
Ling’s in his 30s but looks like a teenager: hairless face, moussed hair, and excitement about what the world has to offer. He isn’t a paying student at the English center where I work, but they let him hang around because he contributes to the English environment, which means he talks to other students in English and never uses Chinese.…
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Once the laundry is finished drying, my mother will add the fresh, lilac-scented sweaters, socks, training bras, and embroidered jeans to our bags. We will gather our belongings, pack a few snacks for the drive, load up the car, lock the front door, and leave the key under the mat. She will heave a deep breath and look up at the house, squinting. I will look anywhere but the house, anywhere but her squinting face. I will pretend that I am not crying, that my eyes are merely itchy from the spring pollen in the air, and she will give me a modicum of privacy by pretending not to notice. She will be leaving my father, and I will be taken along.
For now, though, the laundry hums and shakes and rattles as it has always done, although never under such intense scrutiny from me.…
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On a rainy Saturday morning, the orchid Suna had been growing for the past few months pulled itself free from its pot, shook off the excess dirt, and declared that it was leaving now.
“Have at it,” Suna said from her spot behind the counter. She didn’t look up from her botany magazine. She thought the plant should have been gone at least three weeks ago and she was glad to be rid of it.
The orchid opened the door and walked right out into the rain, its head turned up to gather the water between its petals. Suna put the pot and its dirt into the compost pile. Whatever would grow from it next wouldn’t be any good and she wanted to save herself the headache.…
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