CRITICA

Passing the Great Salt Lake 
I chased a blue line of freedom.
An act on reverie leaving
Behind my accent, and the lingering
Perfume on the recliner.

Daughter, we will be safe here.
I fixed the broken fence. My hands 
Wove strips of Redwood over and under, 
Over and under the old posts, 
Like Anita’s carmine scarf, 
A margin between each cord.
The soft, acrid apples have piled up on 
The ground. The raking can wait, for now
You climb the fig tree.

For the next 59 days
Your father will be staying at the farm.
He is inside the locked iron gate.
I’m letting the houseplants wither. 
I will water them again when the leaves 
Turn thin and brown. We will wait.
We will see if they come back.

Abraham, 22 months, round milky cheeks,
We are sitting at the top of Russian Hill.
I watch the sailboats cut the cold water, 
The unpredictable current below.
A grey whale sings to her portly calf
An ancient song. They travel at once
The only path she knows, passed 
Down to her from her mother.

My new love, do you remember
When we drove towards the 1,
Where the grass is tall and the yarrow is 
Yellow, like the freedom to love you. 
Your hand squeezed my leg.
I looked up, not recognizing the time 
Or the place. We passed the black iron gate
Nestled near Tomales Bay 
Where the children once fed apples 
To the goats when we visited their father.

The settlers decided to go,
A conversation at the dinner table. 
“Stay here and starve, or risk death leaving?”
They chose the dream of a peach, plump
With the promise of juice on the chin.
A place for the children to know the land, 
To know its smell when they close their eyes for sleep.