I come home and fill myself with water. I cover my body in lotion.
I sit on the counter leaning over the sink eating cold peaches.
Driving up through the Valley I am convinced
I must have died many miles back and only just not noticed
and I want to call you - God give me self-will but not yet -
give me sun through the mist -
give me something to numb but not yet -
now just give me the memory of waking up
parched in the passenger seat, sometime close to midnight by the dash clock
and by the dash clock your hands hovering above the wheel,
and the bridge rising up before us, I wish you'd call me still,
when you are crossing that salt bridge, when you lift your hands
to keep yourself from careening off the road
and every day I choose you, even when I don't.
PORTIA ELAN lives and teaches in the East Bay with her Gemini cat. Her work has appeared in Sonora Review, Ninth Letter, Birdfeast, Banango Street, and other journals. Her chapbooks are forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press and Mindmade Books.