Here I Am

By Catherine New

In grade school did you make a relief map of California
pinch salty dough up into two parallel mountain ranges
flatten a long valley centered between them
and over on the left side,
scrape a little opening for San Francisco Bay?

Standing up straight outside under Noontime sun
did you rotate to orient your shoulders
at right angles between those two mountain ranges,
extend your arms and become a compass?
Which hand was pointing toward The Bay?

When your relief map was finally dry
did you paint California’s Central Valley green
the Pacific Ocean blue, Sierra mountain peaks snowy white,
recall yourself standing outside as a compass?
Were your toes pointing North or South?

Watching a sunset sky, sun sinking behind the Coastal Range
did you contemplate the Pacific Ocean, the Golden Gate
maybe ships sailing over a distant watery horizon,
remember yourself a compass, consider “that’s West”?
East behind you Sierras, a vague continent, another ocean?

Do you recall gritty dough on fingers, salty taste on your tongue
the little tray of watercolor paints, dipping brush into water
twirling the tip between your pursed lips to make a fine point
with which to trace blue rivers flowing Sierras to Bay? Then
glance in a mirror and notice paint-stained lips, tongue?

Did we really paint the rivers, I don't remember for sure
but 2023 now 75 living in Stockton, the San Joaquin Delta
I can imagine twirling that paintbrush between pursed lips
imagine my blue tongue in the mirror,
can you?