snow for sky

in the dream,
liana and meg day
are interchangeable
l/m is performing
in the san diego women’s (gay) chorus
at some sprawl of a church
that provides beds/recliners
so the elderly can attend and still
be comfortable
(fluffy white comforters
and bedside lamps
reminiscent of
an ikea flor)
and paula’s there too, only she’s
not drssed in the glittery showchoir numbers
because she’s not a paying member
of the chorus
and the landlord has hired out
a backhoe and is digging
an enormous trench around the premesis
and though we have to vacate (pack and move)
in 48 hours, when liana asks
if i want to slumber party
i say yes
giving myself a half-day to
pack all my stuff and get rid of
all my furniture
_______
a lightness
coating the ground
sun not yet casting light
from my just-awakening
couch perch
i guess snow
_______
instead of over
a propane stove burner this morning
grandmother cooks the frybread
on a mesh rack
over the open flame
in the woodstove
its glow on on the curve of her cheeks
_______
keith asks at breakfast
where we bought the vegenaise
due to everyone’s
delectable enjoyment
of the condiment
_______
fireside, grandmother lowering
poofs of hand-cleaned brown wool
into a bucket of stove-heated water
with soap
_______
in this low-visibility (snow for sky) we
take the sheep south
towards the edge of the mesa where
on a clear day
on can see san francisco’s
snow-covered peak
_______

the hum, something like a highway
we’ve never heard before
where the mesa ends
and the other great open space
begins
we”ll never know trish says
due to low visibility
_______
rest/shelter under
juniper bush/tree
which drips
snowmelt
on waterproof layers and
unfolded pages
________
the swish-swish of trish and i’s
rainpants all afternoon
zig-zagging
across the mesa
_______
sips of warm miso
from silver thermos
while snow flakes make
a slight sound landing on raincoat
_______
it’s the first time i swore out there i tell trish
pink-faced upon return
(goddamnit! in response to
my mud-collecting
ten-pound [each] boot feet)
_______
because we’re outlaws i say to trish
at the stove-side perch while
eating my desert quesadilla dessert
(frybread in coconut oil
chocolate chips and triple spice mix
melting inside)

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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