what it would mean

if I actually lose half

of who I am?

Shore Break

We go to the beach.

Lisa teaches us that

at least once a day

you have to put your feet

in the ocean. We lie in the sand

without towels.

We learn to bodysurf,

pulling our heads up and out

just before we slam down

on the churning sand.

Jorge

Bolinas Ridge,

I tell Lisa. We need to do it.

She smiles, lets the sand

filter through her fingers.

Lisa’s eyes squint

at the sun above me.

I feel the sand shift behind,

off-balance.

Jorge towers there.

His skin and hair are dark.

His words are swallowed

in his smile.

I heard you say Bolinas Ridge?

I hike there all the time.

He talks about

living here his whole life.

We ask him lagoon questions

and about the hippies

who live in Bolinas.

He tells us they like

to remove the highway

signs to keep people away.

Sometimes My Father Comes

Some days

my father drives out to see us,

but he won’t stay.

Sometimes he takes

a drive with my mother.

Sometimes, after the drive,

they stand at the car

just outside the gate.

Their voices are drums

booming without any measure.

We watch through the gate

until the giant form of my father

turns to come in and say good-bye.

He makes promises.

We’ll go to the comic store,

we’ll take a hike near Inverness,

I’ll show you the elk

on the peninsula.

He hugs me.

My mother stands near the dirt and gravel

where the Sunbird was parked.

She won’t come in for a long time.

Shopping

One morning,

we go to the outlet stores.

I refuse to go in.

Mom takes Lisa inside.

I sit in the car,

the air thickening,

the heat pushing down

on the leather seats,

reading Ogre, Ogre

by Piers Anthony.

Smash the half ogre

is trying to solve

a vague dissatisfaction

about himself,

some discomfort

lodged in his mind

and body,

like the slow tick

of a faraway clock.

He decides

at last

to seek help.

Hours (maybe) later,

Lisa and my mother

come out of the store,

bending and swaying

like apple trees,

overloaded branches

with translucent plastic bags

of clothes and shoes.

Lisa smiles at me.

When we reach the nursery,

they have a fashion show

in the courtyard.

Clothes pile up on the wooden floor

and in front of the huge mirror,

where Lisa spins in skirts,

some tight, some overflowing.

Tight-fitting T-shirts, rifting at the belly,

and flowering blouses,

the sculptures looking on

in tranquil indifference.

I see her joy,

and I feel my fire.

I’ve always liked the way she looks,

but when I see her so happy

in her colorful new clothes,

it feels as if a hand is reaching

through my stomach

and into my chest,

pulling at my heart

until I can’t breathe.

I want to tell her something