my california

By Maris Juwono (College)

a response to California Poet Laureate Lee Herrick’s poem, “My California”

here, in my california
the one-to-two-dollar thrifted books
burn in my heart like calories
the only thing to sustain a will
a desire for more sentences, tomorrow
the pursuit of one that will forever
change everything—
wild geese in the spring and
ina coolbrith’s breath in the trees, i
see what beauty can be found
in the hike-obsessed mountainous
lands, duplicitous sandals lead me to
gated mansions, pristine marble
islands we gather around, sipping
out of sand-glasses too sublime to
remember the soft sediment of origin
between our toes, southern shores,
succession
enveloping blankets of bubbles we carry
home with us, granules of it
stuck in our shoes, under our sweatshirts
adolescent shivering, we burn
our textbooks, abandon
our bonfires, fake alcohol, head
to the pho place and warm ourselves
around the steam and intoxicate. i eat all
the mung bean soup
and we gobble like chickens,
turkeys crossing the street, necks clucking
no care for the metal traps waiting to
plummet into our feathery bodies
unable to fly—

here, this place that was never mine
liminal space that mouths
the shape of the word “home”
whispers the letters of a “future”
into earlobes so sweetly
a girl like me can sing
the praises of that unattainable green
light across the pier
we throw parties, hoping for one body
to stroll in and change
everything— we wait, keep wishing
on stars fabricated into the sky
fairies of fireflies
we sit in the sand and bury ourselves
in it, chug boba like life source
scream at the falling blocks
we try to build together, toppling over
stay until we get kicked out
by underpaid staff we didn’t anticipate
becoming,
isn’t that the american dream?
how inspiring, these proletariat rags
attempts at meaning,
the long beach taco trucks where
a tostada taught me what a life looks like
piled on top of fried tortilla
poetry readings, protests, golden
bridge of eternal light
the korean unnies after church,
fortune cookie factory
made by hand, alleys full
of pots on sale
the dim sum of convergence
a-culture-asian
dian xin, chao fan
touching of hearts,
little dishes that hold our bushels
of hope,
gold nuggets
popped
into our mouths,
swallowed and lingering and
open for more—