SANTA ANA WINDS
Santa Ana, you are a disruptive force, tearing through everything without restraint, without manners or any courtesy for pre-existing life. You are warm. You sway things, you sway me. As I lay in this hammock, you rock me incredibly still. You make me daydream into a slumber under your pervasive reign. But suddenly everything about me is in danger. You foreshadow unfavorable things, unfavorable weather. A storm. A battle. (a metaphor for something that has a beginning, a middle, and an end). Oh Santa Ana, you rock the limbs of sturdy oaks. Because of you, the stems of those roses my lover bought me are bent, their heads tossed back. And worst of all, Santa Ana, you are just like him. He, who is like you, is not my lover who bought me those roses. He, who is like you, could never bring me roses because “love is cursed by monogamy.” And you Santa Ana, like he, sweep through, without any intention, spreading wildfire across areas that have gone months without rain, picking up dust and dirt. In the Great Basin, you, just like him, are that high-pressure system that grows between the Sierra Nevada and the Rocky Mountains. And you keep growing. You are the ardent wind that blows on my lover’s tired fire, snuffing the embers to death. Maybe I am at fault for carrying with me all of this debris. But you are so cruel to stir it up. How can you make me calm, so calm? When in your wake you leave only wreckage? An end. The end of a beginning and a middle. Yes, more than anything, you are a reminder of him and the warm danger he conducts when he brushes by me. Yes, you are a reminder of him. He who was a love I hardly scratched the surface of years ago. A new beginning. But a love I cannot have, until there is a definitive end. Oh Santa Ana, whisk away my lover so I can finally be as free as you are.
THE THINGS I DO LIKE:
The pressure of your hand
On the arch of my back.
The weightlessness I feel
As you toss me to the bed.
And your smile.
That prized grip on my waist, as if I am a slippery fish
You plan to never throw back.
That silver necklace of yours, dangling in my face
When you are over me.
A chime in a hurricane.
The way it lies flat on your chest
As you lay next to me when we’re done.
When you point to your cheek before I leave,
As if I should have known.
But I don’t know
And I think I like that too, despite
Hating it as well.
Still the fact that I am no more special than any of the other fish,
Offers me hope that I can be.
So I stay liking you, even if there are only 10 things
I like about thee.
l a n d.