Published by the Santa Clara Review
I pen this poem on my hand
the same way that Sacramento leaves
me: slovenly and at twenty miles above
the speed limit. Yes, Sacramento
is kerosene and combusts here
with a hot hatred. Its yellow eyes
grow and grow and look
me in my own,
they tell me “Yes, you have moved
on from me. You have settled
in a cottage and found a rug and
even know that the roads there
kiss your tires hard the way they like it,
but I have left lipstick on your collar,
forgotten your shirts at the cleaner,
and lapped you tenfold whether
you know it or not.” Sacramento
crushes me under its thumb,
watches my botfly body explode
into cinnabar and poppies and yellow.
I am too busy remembering
the sky to notice. I finish this poem
before I know it; its final line
has been written on my palm
before I knew the words to end it.
Jaden Fong 