Kirby Wright

Words from an old flame
Sunrise the past

The time of immortality
...

I stride vacation sand,
Feet burning.

Three pelicans glide north
...

Queen Lili’uokalani, where is our aina?
My memories are a mixture of slack key,
Plumeria, and Kona wind in the trees.
I measure the trades with a desperate tongue.
...

I am alone
On a thin beach
At Christmas.
...

Here are the sterling lawns and tropical
Gardens that once belonged to us.
Love was discovered and hearts broken
As plumeria bloomed and fell.
...

Your purchase? Fifteen red long stems roped by white string. You bought at noon, at the border where roses grow like weeds with many thorns, thorns threatening your hands in this desert heat. Roses struggle out of the dust of my land, senoritã, and I pick these weeds because you buy them instead of the flowers on your side. You want the discount. But there is trouble with my blossoms—they wilt after you pass the checkpoint. Your guard waved you home after smelling their innocence in your hands, but my roses die even as you drive because my sweat was not enough to keep them alive. Buds droop in clumps, refusing life beyond the border. Thorns are stilettos on the stems, blades jutting from twisted frames.

My supply? Over forty bunches. You took the biggest. I said it looked like a dozen, take them. I lied. I let you have the extras because I knew you would be happy with a bargain. You made the deal. I only hoped the thorns would not cut badly, you waiting patiently for the buds to open, you not believing a newborn could die in your arms with no warning at all.
...

1.
Hear helicopter? she asks.
Not helicopter, I say,
Just fan carving
...

Santa Anas carry the scent of sage
Out from the desert.

Tumbleweeds reverse directions,
...

Inside Il Fornaio, a sparrow joins me
At the marble table. Sour chirp. Wants
My pumpkin muffin, a sip of espresso, then
...

The skin of the gallery director is soft. But his muscles know the strain of production. He smokes in an alley adjacent to The Minotaur Gallery in Carmel. Fog veils the coast. His smoke rises south of Dolores. Streets here resist numbers—they are defined by landmarks, intersections, corners.

He has retired from Broadway with tastes for rehearsals, hors d’oeuvres, and starving actors. His face is not unlike yesterday’s or the days before. His vision is no longer curtains—SOLD lifts the soul. The goal is contracts, TRWs, payment plans for the middle class.
...

The promised storm has come.
The weathermen are ecstatic.

Rain washes the bare limbs
...

Love sometimes feeds off hate, for grounding.
Tomato, a fruit, rhymes with potato, gets served as
A vegetable. Go down to your Community Garden,
You’ll see how red rots. Lazy gardeners, once full
...

Drive too fast and you risk missing everything,
Including the solo ironwood standing majestic

In the parking lot. The ironwood’s long-term,
...

Here is the ocean,
This great blue

Melting the coast.
...

...

I believe in the shadows of birds, wings
Full of dark angel, feathered arms

Gliding for beach. This is a movie,
...

The tourists have fled
After an onslaught of wind and fog.
Kelp stretches in tangles,
...

The hospice light is flawless.
The steel in my room gleams.
Gold embraces the linoleum.
...

Haven’t seen you in a week.
Today is Tuesday.
The Dutch Elm shivers on the front lawn.
A U—Haul waits at the curb.
...

He waits in the bedroom. Windows face the street she takes to find him. A Dutch Elm on the front lawn reaches into Heaven. He lies across her bed, watching for headlights.

He hears the usual: children being hustled off the street by parents. There are protests. He smells macaroni and cheese on a neighbor’s stove. He is relieved their day has ended. The children think they own the street—they mark the sidewalks with colored chalk, bounce balls, ride bicycles over the asphalt. But when the sun dies, they surrender claim. He owns this corner of the dark world.
...