by july westhale
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