By: Jami Miller
A solar eclipse lassoed my windshield
to Colorado flowers lingering on I-70,
while the interstate whispered, “escape,”
and Atlanta hid in a corner of my rearview.
I chose to chase the sun
and run from the moon
and wild horses,
where I spread yesterday’s remains.
I left ashes on every snowboard shop in Aspen,
every surf that crashed
into my blind date with the Pacific.
I maxed out on rooftop chicharrones,
tapas at Paco’s,
and bottomless mimosas,
until I stopped at a billboard
welcoming me to California.
I woke up on Lombard Street
in a 1980s classic hotel,
with an elevator that forced me to reminisce on the Sun Dial.
I continued to ride with my hammock in my backpack,
homesick for no home.
I became scattered between Alcatraz
and the Golden Gate Bridge
I never burned down.
I leaned over the stoned ledge of the bay
and crashed into the skies I always tried to imagine.
My toes flirted with the velvet sands of San Francisco,