Julia Rose Eng

driving the car through San Rafael

in the back seat I feel ill

not because of the clash of retro

diners and hipster boutiques

not because of the topless cyclist

with a New Yorker tote

maybe because of my father’s voice

or maybe

it’s because I’m thinking of how

I rang you to ask for advice

while the entire room shook on its 

side

again and again

while you talked to me in slow

motion

psychedelic constellations by the ocean

Miami beach, you and your friends

and a memory of me

and maybe because if you saw

my face now you would not discern

a single emotion

just a blank half moon made of

coconut milk

and maybe because 

standing on the ledge looking down on

the redwoods

I wished you were there to stop me from flinging myself towards them

and maybe because

I am sitting at the girl and the fig

a restaurant that you will never try

and that we will never discuss