It was the place in La Mesa,
southern California for me;
the swing outside the cozy
house, the orange trees I’d
see out my back window,
the two black sable dogs I’d
feed. My best friend’s children,
each face a sunflower, flushed
in the afterglow. My little half-
conscious sighs every time I’d
hear my cousin on the phone.
On weekends I’d cling to friends
in the evenings, in the apricot
sheen of the sky, hosting parties
and we’d tell the stories of our
lives. And, on the polished floor
in a shimmer of topaz each
separate face was distinct.
Over the winey Greek olives,
over the salty bones of the
anchovies even the most sweet,
we’d steal looks at each new
wrinkle, each new strand of grey
hair. Mine is still a reddish brown.
We’d talk all night like candles
in the windows of the young.
Bobbi Sinha-Morey lives in the peaceful city of Brookings, Oregon, and my poetry has appeared in a variety of publications such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, Bellowing Ark, and The Path, among others. Her books of poetry are available at www.writewordsinc.com, and her work has been nominated for Best of the Net
Bobbi Sinha-Morey lives in the peaceful city of Brookings, Oregon. Her poetry has appeared in Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, Bellowing Ark, and The Path, among others. Her books of poetry are available at www.writewordsinc.com, and my work has been nominated Best of the Net.
