Sepulveda

 

I would have you hold me again,
but I am frightened.

The water fills the shower ankle deep
When I was small I swore it was possible

to go down the drain. Nothing she said
could convince me otherwise.  She was wrong.

I  need to move away from here.
My dog has become anxious

There are gunshots every night.
I swear she dreams of chasing the bus you left on.

She whimpers so loud, Sirius has started to complain.
I close my eyes and try to count 10 but can never make it

past six – I am worried  that when I close my eyes the North
Star looks for a way out.

I would hold you again, but I am uneasy.

Like that muggy august night when I saw
a coyote sulking and wet under a streetlight

on Sepulveda.  It was strange, no one was out.
So strange, you couldn’t believe it

but I shake all the time.

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