We'll Always Have California by Emily May Anderson

Some things once set in motion
we can not stop. Like avalanches,
they gather momentum, obey
only their own laws: gravity,
inertia, motion, time.  We sewed
the seeds of our dissolution, I know –
loose stitches never meant to hold.
The dandelions behind our ears
glow yellow today – if we walk tomorrow
we’ll find only dry, white fluff.

We laid our plans like paths in the Pacific sand,
mapping a life by the summer sky.
What did we know then, just two
young bodies fumbling in the dark? 
The constellations change as months
and seasons pass.  I never moved
to the West Coast, and I lost track of you
years ago, when you went east instead.
But every June if I look up, I see
what we saw then: California
framed in stars, our arms stretched
out to embrace the sky.

Emily May Anderson lives in Columbus, Ohio, where she works as an adjunct professor and a freelance proofreader. She holds an MFA from Penn State University and has published poems and book reviews in a range of publications including Mid-American Review, Green Mountains Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Sweet, and others. She loves reading her poetry aloud to anyone who will listen.

Bay Laurel  /  Volume 2, Issue 1  /  Spring 2013