Equinox

We are caught in between acts,

we tightrope walkers
trembling on the fine line between night and day,
unable to finish,
the world ceasing
to care.

Somewhere along the line

the spotlight had slipped off unnoticed,
had faded into the fog
as all Berkeley solstices do.

I was so sure fall had arrived.

It was unmistakable.
My hands were raw
from the burn of the chilled coastal mist
and from pounding out a carnal
cadence on your door
at some godforsaken hour.

But you rose

and touched me as if it was still spring.
Your half-moon eyes
pulled me into bed with you.
Your fists bloomed into long petals.

We awake in your curtained room

unsure whether it is dawn or dusk.
We are stranded,
each to an island of blankets,
and I am searching your eyes for a beacon.

Seeing none,
I pour out the libations
in solemn silence
to appease the Fates, to empty
the bottles I need to fashion,
vessels of hope, of desperation,
a thousand ship salute
across a sea swollen with pride.

Oh but would they burn

like floating funeral pyres,
the fleet of memories aimed at your heart
and expelled out of my own,
the flames only requited by water?

What doesn’t touch you can’t hurt you.

Or can it?
You once chose a knife to your wrist
as if you were carving your half out of my life,
the patterns of missing flesh like hieroglyphs
etched permanently in my heart.

So what can I do,

but drink it all down,
fill flesh with flesh,
lengthen the rope
and keep walking

as if my life depended on it
Fool’s Gold

When I was ten years old

my fourth grade class took a trip
to Old Town Sacramento
where I struck gold
at a gift shop
among postcards of Fort Sutter
and T-shirts reading
I went to mine for gold
and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.

A few flakes suspended

in a clear plastic cube
the size of a die
for four ninety-nine
and I would let
my envious classmates see
but not touch
because it was gold
and it was MINE.

Taking it out nonchalantly

in the middle of a crowd
admiring it
and soon being chased to the corners
by greedy little fingers
everyday

until my fourth grade class moved on

from the Gold Rush to the California Missions
and adobe ruled the day
and I, in defensive habit,
would run to the corner of the world
unchased,
the gold
hiding in my pocket
in embarrassment.
Pendulum

I pushed you over the edge

thinking you’d come back to me
with equal momentum:

I wanted to show you

a better view
of all the fish swimming in the water

and the way you shrieked in exhilaration

clinging to the rope swing
only encouraged me to push harder.

But you begged me to stop pushing

for fear of going too high,
too far

so I stepped aside
and watched you come and go
like the tides of the ocean

and in horror realized

that the swing was tied ten feet out
and it was too late to pull you back in.

The screams dying down

into chuckles of embarrassment
as you were unable to swing back to me,

we waited in silence,
the swing slowing
and settling outside my reach

as if time itself stopped.

We remained still like bronze statues
rusting away their true colors

when all you had to do

was let go
and brace yourself for the plunge.