The saw’s water changed
from clear to an earthy red ignition—
the color of myself inside.
Kara & I named the puddle beneath
the Corolla The Gulf of Valvoline
& rang the slick with our spits & laughter.
A half-frozen worksite in winter. Ice
pop-fractured under my boot prints.
Each step webbed into its own art.
Coconut milk simmered rice
infused with cardamom pods
& being offered seconds, twice.
Jasmine tea soaked honeydew,
juice rushed around my mouth
& chocolate-chip banana bread all winter.
James Brown, Live at the Apollo, howled
“Baby, baby, baby… baby, baby, baby…”
while we edge-died sutras.
Downpours glazed the worksite.
Shielded by raingear, I watched
puddles rush my boot prints.
Casting columns, Elza’s husky voice
warned of a rainbow of bees, a rainbow of bees
through his cow-brown beard.
Our annual bonfire. We burned
sacred texts, hanging a blue
smoke quilt over the gravel road.
That dream: clouds charged
underground— rivers took flight—
whales orbited the moon.