National Poetry Writing Month: Day 1

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Where do you come from, she asked

⁠—California

⁠— was that the question? ⁠— She said

she came from the soft alien pink

of the flesh of a fig. And I thought

of sweet water on skin and knife. I

thought of fog thick in my mouth and 

of coruscation through the canopy

of sequoias older than us, older than

the bible, or their name. Here⁠— 

in this place of quiet remembering

of time before⁠— I find

a becoming more fitting than state,

a place more home than

home.