She’s in California now,
in the happiest little city
you can think of.
Her hair is lighter from the sun,
and maybe from
California’s finest stylist.
She hardly wears makeup anymore,
because her skin is gold all over.
Her bedroom is filled with light,
there is an orchid on the sill.
She still hangs her necklaces from
ornate coat hanger hooks above her dresser,
where she keeps the Chanel No. 5
her brother gave her.
We sleep in the living room
so we can stay up all night
talking about how we
will spend our summers,
and what we will do tomorrow.
She tells me how it’s so different here.
I agree it certainly isn’t Connecticut.
I cut crosses into brussel sprouts,
crush garlic and almonds for lunch.
We take turns washing dishes.
On the night before Easter we wake
to a woman banging on the
glass door in the living room.
Angry and drunk, she yells
for someone who doesn’t live there.
When she leaves, we both have
nightmares, about things we are most
afraid of being true.
I blame it on the tray of cookies
we ate during the movie.
I meet her new friends,
over pancakes and tea.
Hike through california rocks
past the girl with a pet snake.
Ride bikes into town
and watch a baptism in the Pacific.
We talk in tides of what has
and what will
we never read the books
we bring with us
to the cafe.
Her friends love her,
but they look at her, as from
outside of a window.
It is good to watch them fumble
with her speech and careful way of
She is a strange bird
with bright feathers,
resting in a city of green mountains.
I want to whisper to them,
while we are laying on the beach,
while we are eating chickpeas and curry,
that I have known her for years
and I too sometimes wonder
at her plumes.