In California

In California, 

my cousin and I declare our own section of the sand

marked by our 75 cent woven mats from Walgreens

and impermanent territorial lines 

drawn into the beach. 

We consider poetry structures and Kant

and our inferior tans

as glistening bodies shimmer in the sun. 

In California, 

I want to stitch together

a mermaid tail from seaweed and kelp, 

braid octopus into my hair

and lounge aloofly--

like a supermodel--

in the salty surf. 

In California, 

I earn a sunburn I deserve for forgetting my SPF 15 at home. 

In California, 

being from the MIDWEST does not make you in with the WESTCOAST crowd, 

and I feel like a tourist as I am judged by the locals. 

But I feel sorry for them because they will never experience 

the magic that is winter

or drift asleep to the lull of falling snow. 

In California, 

I prefer evergreens to palm trees;

which would Jesus rather decorate

to celebrate his birthday?

In California, 

I cannot escape passive-aggressive coughs in my direction fro the fit, 

and cancer lectures from the lesbians as I sip smoke from my cigarette;

I simply smile at them and inquire about the rate of erosion, 

and if they're aware of the Golden State Sinking Theory. 

In California, 

I crave my boyfriend more so 

than I do when I'm in New York, 

and fail to account for time zones

when I call him at 11 PM--

Pacific Time. 

In California, 

we weigh a fraction less than we do out East--

something to do with body mass and equilibrium, 

and our relative distance from the tropic of cancer, 

and the moon's gravitational pull--my father says. 

In California, 

my heart is heavier, for in California, 

my grandmother passed several months ago. 

In California, 

I am intensely aware of my own mortality. 

In California, 

we struggle to refer to her in the past tense--

and my cousin has nightmares about traveling in airports

with her body. 

In California, 

I am searched by cold hands at the San Diego airport security checkpoint

and comforted by strange and gentle hands of my grandmother's dearest friends. 

In California, 

I move a woman to tears

with a song about birds at the memorial service, 

and she gives me the sparkling bluebird pendant 

hanging from her blouse. 

In California, 

I witness my father cry 

for the very first time in my life. 

In California, 

I toe the line where the sand meets the sea

and wonder what lies beyond.