Hitching a ride, trusting a partner, marrying the same person three times
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Danusha Laméris lives with her husband in a barn in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains. She is the author of the poetry collections The Moons of August and Bonfire Opera. She is a recent convert to fountain pens.
Once, two women hiked a volcano, / stood on the lip, and watched the fire / move in the crater’s mouth.
They talked about it while soaking in an unusually deep / red tub at his rented house. How the constellations / had gone out of their way to align, so that their paths / converged for a time in the redwoods, in a shingled / cottage above the creek.
After my brother died, his wife was sure he was living / inside their cat, Rocky. He’s in there, she’d say, staring into / those blank, yellow eyes. Isma’il? Isma’il? Can you hear me?
The optometrist says my eyes / are getting better each year. / Soon he’ll have to lower my prescription. / What’s next? The light step I had at six?
When I see my friend’s little girl / in the produce aisle, she beams, “I’m happy. / I have new red tights and a boyfriend!”
Don’t you wish they would stop, / all the thoughts swirling around in your head like / bees in a hive, dancers tapping their way across the stage?
Don’t you remember them, the furred legs / of a caterpillar moving along your arm, each follicle / prickling beneath their touch?
I never called her back, the woman / with the two babies born just like mine: / girls who couldn’t crawl or talk, / could barely smile, who lay there, / bundled in flowered dresses, staring / at the ceiling.
— from “Eve, After” | Did she know / there was more to life / than lions licking the furred / ears of lambs, / fruit trees dropping / their fat bounty, / the years droning on / without argument?
Do they ever want to escape? / Climb out of the curved white pages / and enter our world?