by Jeffrey Tucker
Because I drove to the beach during Frank,
ignored the shredded red flag and nailed myself
into a wave, the plumb and drag of current in my nose,
the horizon gone, an ash-blotted sky against slate breakers,
against my flailing arms held high. The brine in my
vein-mapped eyes, or the foam: an awe—
because the 405 Freeway still winds like a noose
through former fields: strawberry, orange, gourd, and
more hangs with each return; because,
at eight, my sister’s friend fell in the backyard.
I pulled our fleabag dog off her, and ten years later
she drove off an overpass, but it was an open-casket funeral
anyway. What was the question?
But, still, the storm: because, when the waves plied the sand
and body surfers crashed right and left,
all I saw was spray—I called it many things, none ugly.