To the feminist karate union and the screeching

motorcycles on 1st Ave, burnouts a block long.

To the skater punk snapping selfies in the sun,

wearing a scruffed up t-shirt the same shitty

black as oblivion, not smiling, not even the eyes.

And also to the tangueras who drown oblivion

with their bodies, a terrible drone of beauty.

To the morning yogis I love to hate in their spandex

and grace making asanas before light. To impossible,

delicate hijabs framing the face of six-year olds

who skip in to an old brick school. To the kids,

the mother buying frijoles y tortillas for dinner again,

invisible men building and feeding and cleaning

the city to send dollars into walls of casas

they’ll never know. To the inherited, lucky wrench

in the mechanic’s hand, to the boozy cherry

on a toothpick, to the fruit trees no one picks clean,

the cherries and plums and apples. The blackberries

rotting on city brambles. To the spoiled kids, the quiet

kids and the angry kids and the yes kids and the no

kids, to all the kids who haven’t yet met oblivion

but are learning the ways to shape themselves

around it. To the techies who never really know

what to do with their money. And the few who do.


To the bus drivers. To the crackheads, the fishermen

weaving their nets and blackstacking North.

To the woman and her cart on the canal not leaving,

staying, how many days, under a broken umbrella?

To sail boats, to craft ales on sale, to jackhammers,

to cranes. To Seattle, you ache too hard, vibrate

at the seams. Like flint. Like caught breath.

Like NW’s finest weed burning a hole in the throat.

Once the moon was the minute hand, the seasons

the hour. What I miss most is stillness.
Sierra Golden is our Poet in Residence for September.

Previously: 30th Birthday Poem, and Working Too Hard.