Unbroken #34, July 2022

I. Postcard from the Edge of the Fire Zone

Across an orange sky blackbirds spiraled by while Redwood roots burned underground. A copy of Call of the Wild was splayed open in the ash, pages singed, and spine unbound. The moon was a spinning yoyo suspended in an act of trickery. My cat, pancaked between two blankets, peered out at the mountain’s torch as smoke coursed from the crevice trees like a censer of cedar sticks. A boy rode by on a flying fish. Many came to see the miracle, Mary’s face manifest in a scorched tortilla.

II. Postcard from the Edge of the Golden Gate Bridge

The bridge was built to cross a divide. A suspension pulling away, two sides supported by tension. To avoid collapse, a structure needs strain but not too much. On a rare fog-less day, when the city shimmered like a sequined gown, Howard’s car was finally found in the north end lot. He never told anyone he was going to cross. No one knew he preferred the city to the headlands view. He left us all to ponder his untimely demise, why one side pulled away from the other.

III. Postcard from the Edge of the Backseat of Barbie’s Convertible

She hasn’t changed, well maybe a little. Her grey hair blows back in my face. She’s ditched balding Ken, wears tight leggings and boots laced to the knee, reliving her youth. We’re cruising the town, top pulled down, in her pink dream machine. She got a raw deal from Mattel; fifty cents to every Kendoll-ar. So she quietly rectified the debt; stole a mink with an ermine collar, a wardrobe of dresses and this sexy Corvette.