Valley Girls

Los Ángeles, late
summer, 1979—

The Santa Anas
singe the Valley—

All year I wait
for winter, to

be born—
I hold

my unformed
lungs up

to the light—
Airless heat—

The fading
fractal tracheal

buds cramp
like bonsai

blotching in
a satin box—

To name me
was to name

you without
knowing. Like

Tío, mail
-ordering holy

water from
the Jordan

to make
me, Little

Evening, well—
there will

always be
too much

wonder, too
much work

to do. Sing,
my strong

-greaved sister,
of the wrath

of this long
summer—
Sing

for me, sing
me—