BE ONE MILE

Be one mile above your home 

dreaming of a time when childhood 

held the meaning of magic. 

Hopefully there, you'll become 

part of the memory.

Be one mile above the coastal ridges 

where you were conceived, 

on Mount Tamalpais's body at sunset, 

after the wedding. 

Remember there are no accidents.

Be one mile north of your heart.
Watch its struggle, 

necessary growth requires the shedding of pain. 

Layer by layer, 

onion tears to cleanse the wound 

of the father and the mother.

Be one mile above Forest Knolls, 

the hill your family's owned a hundred years, 

the big rock like a phallus jotting out, 

the ravines, his legs. 

your house at his feet
if Mount Tam is a woman 

then surely this ridge is a man.
This is the way of things.

Be above the road that leads you home, 

named after an English pirate.
Remember how the Estero 

uncovered the old wood, the square nails, 

and you dreamed this was part of his legacy.

Yes, the plaque was fake.
But the idea of Nova Albion 

and the ache of those white cliffs 

seeking the cadence of speech with the sea's voice.

It told you of other stories:
How the Miwoks dressed in fine embroidered silk 

and ate shellfish from the Chinese blue bowls.

When a trader ship foundered on the craggy shores, 
Point Reyes was the foggiest place in America, 
but all you can remember is the sun 
christening this island in time. 
The point of the three Kings, Little Christmas.

Be one mile above Creamery Bay and Home Bay.
Be one mile above the sunken valleys 
where you want to skim across their surface
in bidarkas. Perhaps the Russians already did this,
but where you were raised is rich in sea nurseries 
on an otherwise inhospitable coast. 

Hover above the wild purple irises in spring 
and remember you carry this place within you always, 
that it wasn't a sin to be born here, 
not knowing the concept of beauty until you left in exile,
expelled from the garden by those with more money.
For, in your dreams, beauty walks before you 
in these wild coastal hills that you call home, 
having called this place home for ages untold.

12/4/1995

This is one of those success stories, where I found the other half of the poem in a journal. The ending was MIA, lost due to an ASCII electronic mishap. For some reason, when I began this massive electronic blog back-up task in 10/2015, I only had 6 somewhat intact electronic pieces total for 1995. Reason to also have paper backup... which I didn't have on this poem. (Only Arc with its 40 entries, representing the bulk of my work in 1995, is in hard copy). 

 I was also able to correct the missing creation date. Thrills all around. But here are the jpgs, just in case.