Livermore (I think), Summer 1995

I stood near the tree

its exposed roots enough toehold 

A precarious perch for our rosy child

and me, on the bank to the river

While you cast your line

dreams of hooking plump salmon for dinner

in a stream starved for slender silver fish

You thought car rides were police chases,

and stunning, statuesque men in dresses

were women. You staunchly defended

mother first, child and wife last

Rice must be smooth, flat and oiled,

never sticky, and gold chains upon my son's

sweet-smelling wrist and neck were removed

when you were not looking. Twice a month

perfunctory tumble and always missionary 

culminating fifteen to twenty minutes later

with a sandbox grunt

Christmas time we milled around, the obnoxious

tree, a six foot monstrosity squat and uneasy, in the middle

of a South San Francisco living room, while we made stilted

conversation, and tried to focus on blurred cream walls

Looking anywhere but where your mother sat

cradled reverently, like St. Nick's long-awaited

present on your lap. This was our clockwork

but only for two more years

Time is vigilant in its observation

duly noting a rewind, a screw loose, a need to tune.

Quinceñeara in the forefront

it was the theme of 1997's stifling heat

A trip to Los Angeles, a drunken rant and Sweet

Honesty powder dusting the air and the motel floor. 

Disneyland both surreal and nostalgic.

Two months after, the humidity a wall to

the persuasion of autumn, you let us go

My rosy child and I

we swam in cooler pools

aimless and naive and relieved 

Imaginary fish and imperious mother-lovers

in our wake