Delta 19: Crossing the Bridge to Tassajara Trail
By David Koehn
The dying world -- we eradicate the mosquitoes
And kill off the dragonflies.
The conversation between Anna, my daughter, and I is that we are a dying breed:
Pest Control has swept through the community and no memory
Of wrestling on the carpet in the middle
Of the family room can save
Us from her mother, head in hands, saying, “She’s going to get hurt,
She’s going to get hurt, she’s going to get hurt, she’s going to get hurt.”
In the attic the Greek Chorus tramples
Over the hobby horse and half-full cardboard boxes.
Push your “Tile” and the misplaced iPad rings from the laundry room.
The outcome of Stage 1 is to get to Stage 2. This is how we talk.
The parallelogram of the Master Mechanic
Razorblade signals the season.
The crumpled ball of yellowed paper with the orange lightning bolt
Drawn on it rests in the arms of the bronze Kraken. When younger
We talked about not staying when
You are the lover but need to be the loved.
In the delta even the rivers have tides.
There is no form in the pressure within the fault.
If you were given a self-driving car, what would you do with it?
Art is fashion. Four of the ball caps on the shelf are variations on blue,
Two variations on tan. One black.
“U.S. House approves sweeping tax bill in a win for Trump.”
The divorce papers issued song lines for the caribou migration
Where the splayed hoof has adapted
To walking where others get stuck.
This is how to read the moment a few hours into the roadtrip
As you pass by the Sacramento. An olive tree exhales a henhouse.
Notice if you look left when looking for source, this means you look
Away from the right of the office: a knot in the back tilts the world
Towards the singing.
Rainbow Kitten Surprise croons “The times
That we believed in a Cocaine Jesus in a black four-seater…”
When our misspent youth spread rumors about the need to need
You have a lover you would love right now if they called.
The song is stuck in your head but does not fade.
As a child at the farmers market
Anna pushed the seed
Into the loam, sprayed the surface with water. Forgotten
In the backyard, the years lined with Deer Tongue.