Away from the Outer Mission, China Town, the Wharf,
away from scents of seafood frying, baking, broiling, dying,
out past civilized streets and yards tumbling ivy,
away from novelty shops with movie posters,
touristy junk, buskers hoarse singing,
boisterous barkers, sex shows, greasy noodles, egg fu yung,
beyond fumes of buses and cars,
after fog banks roll away
and bones begin to warm,
I know where to go.
The edge of the city,
the edge of the sea,
where seagulls scream and spire
over military towers
and remains of public baths.
Wild and alone,
a midwest girl on foreign soil,
where agitated ghosts whisper
of scheming, gambling, grabbing gold,
ruthless fires, pounding iron, rope burned hands,
senseless murders, treason, rapture, splendour,
of love so ripe, so rich, so rotten
it split and spilt,
still swelling symphonies in salty air.
Littered paths
where whiskey bottles, beer cans,
ripped blue jeans, Wrigley’s wrappers,
muddened caps, frisbees tossed and lost,
and stogies are strewn like Hansel’s crumbs.
My feet follow up and down,
under scraggly bushes,
duck and wind to the very end.
Hear them out there,
lolling about on barnacled rocks.
Slapped by icy waves they laugh,
filling me with jealousy.
What I would give to swim the sea
and play among them.
I know I must track myself back.
Back to trolleys,
up streets impossibly steep,
a jumble of hope and fear
and reckless daring,
and somehow more myself again.
©2015 Mariénne Kreitlow