Drought as Desire


My daughter got ill the year
they tore out eucalyptus

along the 101, roots
suspended in air, no more

orange groves to protect
in a land of mini-malls

I stumbled along my own blockades
believing friends would come

with food in baskets thinking
there were barriers against blackness

when seasons stopped I accepted
drought as though it were life

breathed the scorch of it
(no dinners left by the back door)

while rumors whirled
that some were healed by water

we had no water we learned
to harvest in thirst