by Lori Ann Curry

Soil, soft and uneven, gently rocks the soles
Of my old, worn name-brand (but no longer regal) crosstrainers.
The storms of El Nino drench, drown the soils: grasslands accustomed to drought.
Wild flowers —mustard, daisies, poppies, columbines—
erupt with madness washed in, left behind by torrential rains.

Rabid winds blow long brown hair across my eyes,
dry strands adhere to full lips slick with chapstick.
Grasses, in similar delirium, dance and sway, brush against my hips;
Some grow high, look me in the eye, as we tango in the sun.
Thick grasses tangle and wrap around my ankles,
wild baby's breath scratches my tanned shins,
leaving thin red streaks on brown skin.
Hollows and bumps in marshy soils:
Each footfall an adventure, a struggle to simply remain upright.

A mushroom — caramel-colored, flat and perfectly round,
Like rum-soaked flan at Luz's Restaurant,
peeks through the chaos.

I whistle: little furry dogs lost in tall grasses gleefully bound toward me.

And I stumble over a bottle:
Its label, Club Fuzzy Navel, bleached in the sun.

The sign next to my car reminds: 18 Acres, Build to Suit.

Paradise lost.

About the author: Lori Ann Curry splits her time between writing wrenchingly emotional poetry and adjusting commercial and residential property claims for a California insurer. She is troubled by the fact that she finds the two activities almost indistinguishable. Lori requests that this e-zine send shouts out to Grover and Boni.

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© Copyright 1998 by Lori Ann Curry