Jess Eagle
The Valley
When I get there, I’ll find out. Maybe humility
is the truest form of sight. Maybe eaves will loose
and mourning doves will apologize compulsively
to trees for their lost leaves.
I left the valley as a girl sweating under
stacks of stolen books strapped to my back
and learned to read and not to learn: Begonia
and Oleander are worn to emphasize caution
in a new prospect. Petunias indicate resentment:
sensitive and easily damaged. Rosemary to show
you do not easily forget someone’s wrongdoings. The underside
of my arms are still tanned from reading in those grasses,
holding books open to the sky to shadow
my eyes. I am still headed west to make
love to the sea, to let it make love to me.
I still dream of walking through fallen peaches,
some skin and flesh intact, and I remember when I wanted to
build something big enough the wind would not erase it.
Maybe the past is meant to fade: peeing on leaves, roasting
poblanos, peeling charred skin too soon.
Jess Eagle reads “The Valley”
Jess Eagle is a poet and social justice activist who lives in Oakland, CA. She has an MA in literature from Duquesne University. Her work has previously appeared in Lexicon and is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review.