Bodega | Strawberry Peak

Jeremiah slides in and picks me

up from LAX, assures me to expect nothing

for the rest of the day, telling me to rest, to ease

back into his passenger seat, back

into California, my clothes already loose

and inviting. Like against a lithe curtain, a dry breeze swells

and knots in the slack of my shirt, my chest

hair rises, and for a moment I am made

forgetful, and think myself bare,

cold even, until Jeremiah makes fun

of my former life insulated

by humidity. Too often I feel a passenger

to the subtleties of my body, I watch as my fingertips contour

the crest of the San Gabriel Mountains

—it is unusual,

brilliant how clear it is today—until I drift

past myself and feel extended wholly

along its ridgeline, almost like dancing—I can see myself nude

and florid on top Strawberry Peak, but Jeremiah nudges me

awake, says I was indiscriminate,

humming, but what if he too saw me rootless,

wandering through the yucca and sage—

Strawberry Peak