West Fork

West Fork

I wanted to go back in time to each moment she was taught to apologize
for who she was. Undo the threads that connected her to the shame of honesty,
which I found refreshing in a society where everyone is lying to themselves
so they can’t even tell when they’re lying to each other – I told her I would take her
to the mountains that smell like butterscotch ponderosas and red rocks
where she would slip and slide out of herself and into the arms of the mother
she can never lose, the mother who is too large for her to pretend
she is in charge of any of this, all of the control
would have to be left at the mouth of the forest before we entered
I imagined her hair to be like a million golden feathers underneath
centuries of limestone that crept from the ocean and into the sky
teach her which creeks would illicit the most tender responses from her soul
the waters where monarchs swarm even in October’s cold

She wouldn’t be able to retrace her footsteps, because no matter how hard
she tried nature is too relentless and Zen with her lessons about going back
there is no path we can take into the past that isn’t certain death
remind her we need to leave tiny pieces of ourselves everywhere
that once released they no longer belong to us, there’s no net
in existence heavy enough to re-collect them – sit with her in the emptiness
of being and walk away when she closed her eyes to find myself in my own silence
we could be within footsteps of each other and not interfere
with the stillness, but revel in it – I would carry the water and hemp
granola bars while she explored the gems of the desert hidden in the deepest
canyons, not leave until she understood the meaning of our friendship
that it wasn’t limited to two bottles of wine and sushi bars,
that she didn’t just have to call me when wanting to keep her head under water
that we could both try harder to exist together in this city,
this state – that it was as easy as saying yes to simply escape
I imagined her with a cigarette against her lips and strumming her guitar
while I stayed outside on the balcony of some hotel she wasn’t supposed to smoke in
and I’d hop the fence and walk through a tourist town deserted in autumn
find the closest vegetarian restaurant and pillage through the crystal shop
for Tibetan prayer flags because mine had been eaten by sunlight and wind,
it was time for a new season to begin – I told her about the malachite bracelets
and chocolate tree coffee shop, motels that smell like samosas year-round
and the perfect spot to see a double-rainbow before the sun hits the ground
Take her to red rock crossing if the day offered enough light
sit in the midst of thousands of rocks and teach her to balance them
on top of each other so she remembered all of the metaphors for life
That she wasn’t born backwards because she knew to always look ahead
that her insomnia and paranoia were rooted in deprivation
from the world she was secretly in love with – bare feet in clean sand,
bare body against clear water streams that could try for centuries
to be oceans, but are only linked to them through ancestry
I wanted to profess my undying love for what she called crazy
remind her that relationships are the most intimate sometimes
without sexuality, that I could touch her in places lovers couldn’t dream of
because they were trying– I wanted her to feel safe, to know
I never needed to hold her but my words would always uplift her
when she needed them, that even in her most desperate hours
she reminded me of Sappho being the poet’s muse
even when she tried to retract into Hade’s consoling arms
it was because she secretly believed in the truth of impermanence
that not every glimpse into herself meant she was psychotic
and unlovable, but that she was incapable of hiding who she was
even when she was looking at the big picture and trying to arrange it
acting like her life was some sort of arraignment for all the past lives
that collided into this skin, perfectly unpredictable and in need of
deep surrender

I wanted to be the one to cross the bridge with her into the forest
away from all of the lingering summer tourists and passed
the Indian ruins that she would feel desperate over despite herself
knowing we live on stolen land and borrowed time,
how is anyone’s mentality meant to survive two-hundred years
of bloodshed and tragedy – she was built of relentless memory
if you extracted marrow from her bones you would have the cliffs notes
of history, everything between the lines, I wanted her to remember
she was right – she needed the silence and stillness – that’s why I sent her
directions and quietly said yes when she wanted to go alone
because I know there is something we find in the forest
that is really inside of ourselves, that cracks open at the end of the hike
when we think another step is muscular suicide – so we stop –
And find everything we have lost and denied in the city,
because the oak trees are built of eternal empathy
and know what it’s like to always be watched by the sky
and reaching for the ground – passed by those wanting to play
in creeks or run their fingers along bellies of canyons
to remember how young they are in comparison to a world
that was here before us and doesn’t need us
They would teach her better than I could dream
of what it means to truly be one and at peace
to feel the heat of a sun that doesn’t cease no matter the altitude

I knew when she returned she would know the scent
of butterscotch ponderosas and her toes would have been responsible
for disturbing the red clay underneath river rocks
as she crossed them, that each step would be a seed planted
in her internal garden and stepping away from the forest
driving back to the city, she would carry home with her
that relentless sense of what it means to be free
and unapologetic for being small and dirty, depressed
for parting from her true love – the wild world
and fading back into the cage of the empty city.