September by the Bay

I still ask myself, was my hair actually akin to Lombard Street?

Advertisements

One drummer

Plays in his one-man golden gate garage band on an askew street

Cymbals echo for several blocks

 

My father yearns to question tourists, though

If he says

“I am like you,” it

Nullifies my memories.

 

1.  A man hiding in the bushes, unaware of his own scent

Cannabis and salty air,

Startled me as I ate

 

2. An ambiguity between legs and

The trees of Muir Woods that only

Made me question my vision–

Was my hair actually akin to Lombard Street?

 

I am not like you

 

Mom made me stand in every cell in Alcatraz in front of

Decaying walls like sunburned skin

I can’t bind myself to this history, and to suns that bleed like molten lava

With love, Alyssa

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s