the tomato harvest ending
he got stabbed in the ribs
stepping in to help a friend
at the dance
the pain in his heart made the wound
meaningless. he feared he would not
see her again
camp broke up
he steeled himself for fate
up river she came to release him
too late
#katyamills
they mixed drinks in the valley
with the plump hanging pears pulled from orchards
hemmed in by vineyards
a sweet exhaustion set in
the sun usurped the sky and lit the
golden fields
#katyamills
we descend Mount Shasta to a city park at its base, where you find the headwaters of the Sacramento River. they say the snow water takes 50 years to flow through the mountain to this source. people carrying containers make their way around the mouth to the reach the cave the pure water pours from. a sacred place. from here the giant river opens up and irrigates the land. from Redding to Chico to Sacramento. across the Delta and down into San Francisco Bay. the days are hot and dry. this is the valley. we search for olives…trailed by birds. #katyamills
down by the delta the sky
opens up with the land
on a couple hours sleep we hit
walmart. unimpressed in a world
of slippers pumpkin
pie and receipts
night fell over the lot
the wind shook us down i
looked in your eyes they
were laughing like fire
i saw an angel
on a tire swing
just kids
in the yard
#katyamills
inspired by my friend Karen W.
we rode on out to see your cousins down along the river road, into the delta and god was it beautiful, America. dazzling on an autumn afternoon. we paid respects to your mom along the way. the sun would leave the cemetery sky red hot on its descent in the west. i never knew your father was an artist until you showed me his studio deep in the lot, behind the garage. there was a portrait of a beautiful woman on the easel, maybe the beloved in the beloved years? 94 now he lives with sophia the cavalier.
back to wood floors. they are pulling up the carpets now. the orange tree what with its lime hybrid. beginning to bear fruit. we shared baked beans and fried chicken and i listened to his story of coming to this country, up from Mexico, a teenager hoping on some work and a couple hundred dollars to take home. an older man convinced him to hop the freight train and go north to Indio. from there they decided on Sacramento. the man taught him if you dress up a little you can get work easy. he doesn’t know what became of his friend, who got drunk one night and disappeared. that was three quarters of a century ago. old sacramento was a community of migrants.
i wonder about the spirit and where it travels when somebody is no longer around? your dad is a good man. what a life. he’s been through it. and he still gets up and out into the orchard for it. working for more at ninety-four
.
the grapefruit ice you drink upon the delta breeze
with summer lost its spark
calm down. you need not rush
the leaves to turn and
softly fall upon the crossing
walk
time to sit and talk
all the cell phones gone and what a world
would be. what a world once
was and how we got along you
fingered my blouse i cried to think so
soon you would be
gone
The quality of life changed, i could sleep at night and stay up all day. i found an exceptional colombian coffee which filled my thermos with a couple spoonfuls of brown sugar and cream, and lasted all day long. i was happily employed in the art of conversation, beneath the surface of dysfunctional meet and greets. spring was coming on strong and every other person with allergies. the cats found entertainment in the yards, after a long winter indoors. i replanted my plant and set it on the windowsill where it prospered. my boyfriend took me for pancakes early mornings, and then we hit the depot for large sacks of mulch, five for ten, and i helped him toss them into the bed of the truck. he took them to the Delta for the orchards. -KatYa, 2017
K IS SILENT 