From the Past

by Francesca Lia Block & Lilly Barels

“He sends his love,” she said, misty-eyed like the mountain.
He used to take me to the Farmers Market.  He made me breakfast.
I’d crash napkins together underneath the table.
Rip them apart.

Beachwood Canyon was haunted with dead and dying movie stars.
Nature prayed for all of us.
Watched over that old yellow house with the columns
and the street winding to the Hollywood sign,
with oleander and bougainvillea and trumpet vines
and palms like his hands.

I was so drunk trying to get to him.
He left
a note on the door and leaves fell.
Embers.  Gold and red.
They set us on fire.

Years later he’d propose
and I’d say no as if I sensed the child we’d have
would somehow not be right.
We disappeared in the ash.

I don’t think he made me breakfast

I hide my hands in my lap, twisting fingers,
as she sits in my living room,
crying for her son.