There is so little to call ours except caution,
a little myth, the pan
of stuffed duck cooling on
the counter. I zip myself into bed. My grandmother
wakes up at 4 am to exercise. Call it an exercise
in faith, how she bets on dawn. Meanwhile
Mama colors her white hairs. Then she stands
before the topography of unwashed dishes
and breathes with her chest. The tomatoes
are ripe now. Go look–they’re growing out the garden,
in the pot with a peace sign
tattooed in the clay. The mothers I miss
shrug off their jackets, leave them folded
by my door. I cut off any loose threads,
heat them up with my palms, & cling.
When I look up, the sun is gone. Remember
to never leave visions unattended.
I mistake California in fall for
apocalypse. The clovers here have
too many leaves to count.