Then the letting go

In Vancouver I ran on icy
roads each morning, then stood 
in the shower, scalding, thought
of slipping. I watched the kettle til my eyes teared up,
the light blurring, I made instant coffee, drove south 
through the redwoods, embarrassed by words, 
their poverty: rocks in the water 
like petrified whales; Joni Mitchell; 
sweet grapes on the passenger seat. See? 
There were seals in the river 
outside my motel window. I ran for miles and then
cried the whole drive out of the forest, knees aching. 
I made it to February. And California. I sat in the 
passenger seat: eucalyptus, lighthouse, 
blue water, black rock, sagebrush, poppies, 
calla lilies, their smell like my grandmother
in her nightgown, cinnamon ice cream, Erin 
pink and golden in the heart-exploding sunset. 
Scorch marks on the hills. In LA
we roamed the streets, double-lined 
with palm trees, drunk on Tecate, sips of air
that smelled like bougainvillea, desert breeze,
relief. The missing felt like drugs or poison
lighting up each vein. It was all I could manage
to list things: adrenaline; the sudden loss 
of faculties; phantom hands; phantom 
teeth. Most of the time I lay in bed
admiring the way the palm fronds lay
against the sky at night. 

Note: “Then the letting go” is a line from Emily Dickinson

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Sara Blazevic is a Croatian American poet and organizer from New York City. She is a graduate of the Brooklyn Poets Mentorship Program and her work has been published in Thrush, APIARY, the Newport Review, and Northern Colorado Writers.