Eucalyptus trees catch fire, burst in Santa Monica, 

fat green wax candles cast shadows

on the Cherokee bonnet,

bulrush fingers moon pale, 

air warm and crystalline in the pink Southern gullet. 

I try to be good, let the wick grow frail

before licking my fingers damp, pinching it out. 

Eyes closed, Grandmother squeezing my soft thumbs

pruned white, hot liquid kissing my skin. Thighs raw,

stained with pine cleaner on the floor 

of that single bed Church, 

a packed home to fifty people and a Priest.  

I try to be Spring in Oleander time;

quiet, mild, forgiving—

I could kill and blame it on the air.

Your tongue strikes three-PM, and I’ve never looked good in white. 

I did feel your restless love,

fluid gestures painted Prussian blue

from above the pews, sifting through us pale faced

sardine girls, searching for women, a stained-glass breast. 

I did feel your fingers;

oyster-beige, dusky, 

touched with a kind of light my prayers could not conjure, 

sweet like chemical nectar, probing, prodding at those blurred lines, 

asking, begging;

I watch the trees catch fire and pretend I do not hear it.

My knees stained an ashless sallow, 

cuttle-fish white knuckles press crescent moons

in the soft flesh of my palm. 

And Lord, colour me shocked, 

It’s so very busy down here,

And I don’t think I’ve been praying to you,

just to something bigger than me.