Summer 2004

Summer 2004

Ruth Daigon TO THE WOMAN WHO LEFT HER OLD AGE TO SOMEONE OLDER THAN SHE WILL EVER BE On the day I finally outlive your days, I'll wake to leaf fire sunlight peeling eucalyptus and room enough to drown in. But I'll still float above your kitchen-talk in rooms of broken English. What you wouldn't give to have that dream again daughters with sweet heft of breasts sons on long stems of bones. Isadora danced naked on the sand but you patrolled the shore trapped in dailyness chafing your bunions on the beach rushing to see if one of us had drowned. What full-time work it was for you to live days sucked into sinks full of dishes nights spent ironing every stroke a small act of love. California shines and shines. Summer builds earthworks all year round. Sun glows electric. I draw long, even breaths for you turn and breathe and make such simple crossings back again.

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