Cayucos State Beach
We come to the same shore each year, believing we know her tide.
Dark kelp with flies, sand dollars, washed
bones — my sister, ankle deep, captures white-ribbed wavelight.
Wrapped in a metal folding chair I point my eyes
westward, dripping years. Since birth
we have translated her dark tide. We slip
into her seal skin, a cashmere of bones, white
shells (once baby gods) she spits out like sunflower seeds. Above, a sand moon ripens
and Mother foams green and relentless —
I swallow the sun for you,
for both of my silver abalone daughters.
We snatch our blankets and wash the salt off our feet with a hose.
Her love foams green and relentless, and I will not die here.
* * * * *
Bangkok
You need this more than I do, my sister said
Four fat garnets in a row
I wore it instead of my wedding ring
You and those South African twins
Eating sandwiches on a bulldozer in that
Humid, brown-rivered, lush city of
Ping pong balls, plastic buckets of liquor,
Golden temples, night market stalls,
Long iguanas in the sun
Bangkok sunk its claws into us
Again and again
(The blood on the sheets and walls
Four black cherries on a gold plate)
I would wring a cat’s neck to forget you
You met me again in Chiang Mai
Lime trees, motorbikes, elephants, waterfalls, islands
The night on the train
We forgot what it was like to be apart
When you left
Back to her and your clear lakes
I lost my passport
For months I ate soup at small plastic tables
Was I really done with my marriage?
My wedding ring
In daddy’s gun safe
When I gave you my sister’s garnet ring
The gems settled into your hand like seeds