Livermore (I think), Summer 1995
I stood near the tree
its exposed roots enough toehold
A precarious perch for our rosy child
and me, on the bank to the river
While you cast your line
dreams of hooking plump salmon for dinner
in a stream starved for slender silver fish
You thought car rides were police chases,
and stunning, statuesque men in dresses
were women. You staunchly defended
mother first, child and wife last
Rice must be smooth, flat and oiled,
never sticky, and gold chains upon my son's
sweet-smelling wrist and neck were removed
when you were not looking. Twice a month
perfunctory tumble and always missionary
culminating fifteen to twenty minutes later
with a sandbox grunt
Christmas time we milled around, the obnoxious
tree, a six foot monstrosity squat and uneasy, in the middle
of a South San Francisco living room, while we made stilted
conversation, and tried to focus on blurred cream walls
Looking anywhere but where your mother sat
cradled reverently, like St. Nick's long-awaited
present on your lap. This was our clockwork
but only for two more years
Time is vigilant in its observation
duly noting a rewind, a screw loose, a need to tune.
Quinceñeara in the forefront
it was the theme of 1997's stifling heat
A trip to Los Angeles, a drunken rant and Sweet
Honesty powder dusting the air and the motel floor.
Disneyland both surreal and nostalgic.
Two months after, the humidity a wall to
the persuasion of autumn, you let us go
My rosy child and I
we swam in cooler pools
aimless and naive and relieved
Imaginary fish and imperious mother-lovers
in our wake