I am from rogue waves.
From Coppertone and ripe plums.
From the black asphalt of a tennis court.
Splinters, sweat, and the smell of egg sandwiches.
I am from the pepper trees and the Meyer lemon,
whose fruit is sold for 5 cents a glass
by my sister and me.

I am from the Sunday comics and the Catholic pews,
the red hair, one curly, one straight, of Ruth and Bill.
I am from the heavy hand and the lightweight heart.
From the Look At Me and the Because I Said So.
I am from Stanford Street in Santa Monica,
the golden land where the alcohol flowed.
Appetizers, barbecue, and martinis.

I am from my selected family of friends,
John Coltrane, chili dogs, and driving around.
And The Catcher In The Rye, who caught me before I went over the cliff.

I am from the Air Force Colonel and the nitwit.
He who served with McArthur in the South Pacific.
She who had a big chest and threw great parties.
And a little girl who made friends with the strays and got ringworm.

I am from the photos pasted into the black album.
Black-and-white pictures of a little girl wearing a dress matching her mother’s.
An ancient book with vaults and chambers
where my family tree once grew.
I am from the faces in the album I no longer recognize.

I am from the golden land where the alcohol flowed,
a place I have yet to go.
From the black-eyed Susans growing in the garden.
From pepper trees and Meyer lemon,
from the memories of children swimming in the ocean
then eating ripe plums and egg sandwiches on the hot sand.

All that remains of her are the herbs.
It began as her gift to me for my birthday. A grow-your-own pizza herb kit
for my kitchen window.
An egg carton, a bag of soil, cellophane packets of seeds, and Popsicle sticks
for identifying
the basil, scallions, oregano, and tomatoes.
One teaspoon of powdery earth into each cardboard womb, 
the seeds barely visible to the eye, 
a Popsicle stick with my writing on it stuck in each moist cup.

Creating life in the tiny cups was like embryonic surgery. 
I watered by drops every morning like I was feeding a nest of baby birds.
When the herbs overgrew the carton, and the water drops would no longer saturate,
I transplanted them, like IVF, into their own dirt home outside.
Where they could stretch out.
Where the sun could shine directly on them.
Where they flourished.  
The scallions are now a foot high.  
The oregano a green mound.
The tomatoes are leggy and bragging.
The basil leafy and pungent.

She has been transplanted too.
She left an oar and some bags of T-shirts behind in the garage.
But all that remains of the living her are these herbs on my pizza.  
I sprinkle them on now because it’s the best I can do,
savoring every fragment.
Her herbal equivalent.
Her green counterpart.
Her living replacement.

Every Sunday afternoon I locked the bathroom door, turned up the volume knob on the green 
plastic radio that sat on the bathroom counter, and submerged myself in warm bath water. Only 
my nose stuck out above the water line. My hair floated out in an auburn fan around my head as 
the warm water rippled over the surface of my body. I was listening to the Flamingos sing “I 
Only Have Eyes For You” on The Johnny Otis Show. From under the water I couldn’t hear the 
exact words of the song, but I could feel the thundering in my body and the pulsing of my inner 
ears as the bass and the drums vibrated and wrote sonnets on my skin. 

The bottom of the tub was scratchy with sand. Sand had washed out of various cavities after my 
day at the beach. My shoulders and knees were sunburned. There was a white area of skin where 
my one-piece bathing suit had hidden me from the hot beach sun. Otherwise, I was a dark gypsybrown.

You might want to know what I was thinking about 
on those submerged Sunday afternoons.

I was thinking of escape, though I didn’t have a destination in mind.
Escape from the infirmary, with its smell of sickness and its 
annoying expectorant sounds.
I was thinking of escape to the over there.
I was thinking of boys, though I didn’t have enough information to be specific.
I was thinking of 
Largeness,
of the whole earthness of possibilities that I couldn’t picture. 
I was thinking of the way the water felt on my body. 
Of silvery skins slipping
Minnows wriggling
And the moon waxing
on the over there horizon.

Does a magnolia bud know it will become a flower?
Can it sense the nectar brewing under its sap of skin?
Is it possible to know something before you know it?

Submerged in the warm water
I thought of doors opening onto a sunny porch.
Of welcome mats being placed on stone.
Of latches and locks opening.
Of lenses clicking.
Of one note being bowed on a cello string.
Of the word aperture.
Of crickets on a summer night
Of the over there
and of the here-and-now.
Most of all, I was thinking of rhythm and blues,
how it made me feel so alive.

“Are the stars out tonight?
I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright.
But I only have eyes for you.
I only have eyes for you, dear.”

There’s a sniper on the roof
and I’m wearing my bull’s-eye shirt.
I have coal in my pockets. 
I have turpentine in my mouth.
And I have a troubled mind.

There’s a sniper on the roof
and he’s got my number.
I’m wearing my metal headgear.
I’m imagining the song of the mourning doves.
And I have a troubled mind.

There’s a sniper on the roof 
and I’m waving a white flag.
I didn’t invite him here.
I’m not packed for the trip.
My documents are not in order.
I have not made amends.
I have not said my good-byes.

No wonder I have a troubled mind.