Kayla Sargeson: In this place

At 7:30 am the sun’s already hot on my bare back.

East Carson’s nearly empty.

I want to say “my East Carson,” but I’ve learned not to claim

what’s not rightfully mine,

like the pond behind the college where I work,

home to one heron, ducks, snapping turtles.

Alycia came into work one day, waving her hands:

It bit me!

The girl at the bus stop in the evening dress and studded gold

sandals is lovely.

Whitman says: Happiness, not in another place but this place

not for another hour, but this hour.

Herons can kill snapping turtles,

shish kabob them with their beaks.

I could think of worse ways to go:

a burst bladder, lava lamp explosion,

choking on a hot dog.

Consider Susan Cabot, star of The Wasp Woman,

beaten to death by her 23-year-old dwarf son

with a weightlifting bar.

The photo in the article shows

her holding three cats,

one crawling on her shoulder.

The man who gave himself to me decently is dead

and he comes to me in dreams:

jump, he says.

Jump like the bball boys playing at sunset,

the sun redpink over their heads,

their skin made silk with sweat.

In my romantic mind, they move like they’re dancing.

From First Red published by Main Street Rag, copyright 2016 Kayla Sargeson.