a capital city in each pocket

by july westhale

for bolivia


it is presumably peach season

the air smells like    roasted cumin seeds &

there are frowns in the stray dogs    the kind of

concentration brought on by    dented copper   money

&   summersong’s identical  seasoning box


(if we could we would  play pool   mix drinks  spit

off balconies  and kick the ball foam lip

up from    the orange flowers

in the country hairline fractured   from the coast.

if we could we would take the B14 combi    anywhere


& everywhere      except nowhere/a useful place)

in the split of this sea peach,   bolivia,

with the constitutional pocket   linting

& waxing administrative— a mountain-swagger

is brandishing   la paz


hip-holster cocked     ready to nape

the curls of shore’s clandestine underskirt

the bed ruff  of dualistic intention

& grass roots green with unwilling

hegemony & marine discontent.


drop the eggs i carry here.


they come in gray plastic   which can be accounted

for in the pink  of altitude sickness   spun in yarn

i am not so much asking    to stay

for breakfast as   to drop my anchor   in the sea

my country stole away from you.

july westhale is a poet, activist, archivist and femme shark with a weakness for botany and hot air balloons. In 2004 she won the Out! Redwood Lesbian Rainbow Literary Award for Prose and was published in College of the Redwood’s literary journal, Poets and Writers. In August 2010, she was invited to participate in and publish with InterDisciplinary’s International Conference on Performance Theory in Prague with her article “Entrails and the Bedroom: Sexual and Geographical Borderlands in Queer Bodies”. Her poetry has been published in Spork Literary Press, Bitch You Left Me, Samizdat and Grad(e). Her fiction has published in Full of Crow (forthcoming). She is a graduate of Mills College and is currently working on her MFA in Poetry. She lives and writes in an attic in Alameda with her two cats, z and blue.

photo by lndhsf72


All, Poetry