I rub my mind
over the long limbs
of childhood,
springing
on four legs
to the tops of its branches.
Cautiously, I peer into
nest holes and bee hives.
My claws scratch bark,
poke beetles,
snag moss.
I stretch in the curve
of summer’s warm thighs,
kneading my shadows
with sunlight.
Tiny nubs,
burnished into waxed tips,
leaf in me
tender for nuzzling.
Saratoga Creek
languidly moves
its full black body
beneath me.
I am thick with pollywogs,
iridescent flies,
everything’s Yes!,
and necessary.
I jump,
and the soggy ground
plumps pillows of mud
for my landing.
Thoughts of peaches
and warm black plums
flick pink tongues -
(bing cherries! Sweet Jesus!) -
into hills
and valleys
of everywhere
I want to go.
*
How I long
for Santa Clara --
for the gush
of her orchards pouring downhill
(before suburbs crawled
in her picnic) --
for walks in Montalvo
where random bruised fruits
were squished into paths
that led to adulthood,
fermenting my youth into molder
and magic.
*
Do you remember,
Jeannette,
how we squatted on edges
of doorsteps and gutters,
licking
honeyed halves
of iced apricots,
spilling fat white scoops
of birthday fuss
melting in August?
*
I loll with my head
on my best friend’s belly,
sipping the jam sauce
that runs through her voice.
Our bare legs straddle
the crotches of tree trunks,
we pine for big brothers
who taught us to smoke.
Greg died at twenty,
stabbed in a Quik-mart,
a “hoodlum” my mom said
to her friends on the phone.
Mine pumped speed
from a spoon in the bathroom,
while I sat on the floor
with his son in my arms.
*
Parents
held us less tightly
than the wide bulging arms
of orchards surrounding
our girlhoods.
Meanings for Goodness
are many and round,
swelling in plums
that dangle around us.
Binging in treetops
on fruit feasts and girl-stuff,
I spit grief’s
purple pits
out.
*
And you, Jeannette...
Today I suddenly braked
near the corner of Somewhere
and 4th Street
at the thought of your
tumbling laughter.
If I shut out the drilling
phones in my brain,
would the girl who hides
in the dark of your eyes
pick plums,
climb down
from the branches?
*
Who asks
to be a mother at twelve?
Your secret was more
than I thought I knew how.
I washed away
sticky traces of your prints,
of a sweaty voice
squirming with friendship,
until now, when I taste
the rich sweet juice
of bitten ripe fruits
from my childhood.
