Northern California


Somewhere between my first walk and first bike,
Apa asks if I have integrity
and can withstand an overflow.

Teams spend days surveying the damage
and label me a mess.

One day I’ll have to run the shop and elder
until I can’t elder anymore.

The curse of seeing a spillway
and only visualizing me.

Boys taller than me warned
not to meet the river at its mouth.

The reservoir insists I write a song
for my breaking.

I buckled,
and the valley below now knows why Apa cried
in fallow fields.

Curse of the Cosumnes

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