At one point, there was a point.
The air was still, I think. The sky was yellow at dusk and we were like cameos, flushed against the mountains.
Then there was lots of stuff. Like identifying with pinole, and finding someone.
The boom ended. Money dried up with the creek bed, and the very best citizens of San Diego called it “deluded sentimentality” to give Indians any land or water. As if these things are stuff to be owned or sold off. I am missing many cousins, have you seen them?
I give you clothes, jewels, I give you hair, my hair, I put things on you. Lots of things, stuff. Spliff. Paycheck. Love.
Have you ever wanted the flip-flopper to hold you, and shatter loose? To bruise by kissing, I think this is called hickey. Then he always leaves me.
There was an orchard in the valley. Sand Creek was shrinking. This is all very blurry to me. Candelaria gathered wild foods from the hills and woods. She tamed the intrusion of Spanish crafts, made pinole— a blend of native seeds and Spanish barley. She churned butter, and made lace. She ground acorn in ancient metates and wove baskets from dry grasses.
Can you see how I always feel like I’ve been left? I’m culturally sensitive to “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.”
Maybe if we’d waited til summer, you would have been warmer. Maybe no one can keep that dream-feeling for long.