One hundred thirteen degrees. Yesterday afternoon, in the grass behind the house, we set a little sprinkler for the birds. It made a shallow lake in the shade. And out they came from the bushes, and down from the trees, children of the leaves.
The tomatoes and peppers did not mind the heat. We protected the cucumbers with a sheet. We will again today. At four this morning it was eighty-five degrees. Now, at five, it’s down to eighty-one. What surprises me most, though, is that I have lived this long.
June 28, 2021
Cross My Heart
Sack of day-old doughnuts, fifty cents.
Barnyard gnawing vineyard brush.
Boys smoke whatever’s at hand.
Found butts. Dead leaves. Horse shit.
Cross that desert, cross my heart.
And that’s the end of it.
Except your ghost, and this loneliness.
Recently Banned Literature, April 6, 2014
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces, Recently Banned Literature
Tags: Children, Cucumbers, Day-Old Doughnuts, Diaries, Extreme Heat, Ghosts, Horses, Journals, Loneliness, Memory, My Father, My Grandfather, Peppers, Poems, Poetry, The Great Depression, The San Joaquin Valley, Tomatoes, Water