by Amy MacLennan
On California’s left edge,
mid-state with cold waters,
populations smear the coast, cluster
on fringed bits of peninsula, outcrop —
descended from fishnet menders,
barmaids, tenders of a lighthouse lens.
New blood, some, but this kind of wet
isn’t meant for all, skies cast over
most of the year, and the smother of fog,
slight sawdust tang, can lose
its romance fast. For those
who love ice plant on sand, trees
horizontal in the onslaught of wind,
and a constant bite of salt,
it is a place, the place, to settle
and cling to the end of land,
in coves, topping cliffs, on the verge
and knowing it.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 