I’ve almost forgotten how
that night we watched Rio Grande
with its sentimental ballads,
a thick rain soaked the basement,
we slept over the flood. How
when riding up the coast, I never
could lose sight of the Pacific ocean
mist occasionally ruined by sun,
the bridge’s yellow ribbons of light
on the Embarcadero. How he’s missed
the thousand sea lions who’ve conquered
the city shoreline and the lovers
swinging their hands, high and higher,
so high, I’ve almost forgotten how.
Carla Sarett writes fiction, poetry and, occasionally, essays; her work has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best of Net, Best Microfictions and Best American Essays. She is the author of one full-length collection, She Has Visions (Main Street Rag) and two chapbooks. New work appears in Potomac Review, Stonecoast Review, Harpy Hybrid and tiny wren. Carla has a PhD from University of Pennsylvania and is based in San Francisco.
twitter: @cjsarett | instagram: @carlasarett