Be Honest

By Kingston Rivera

Someday Sunday, I hope to see beyond the woods

To a clearing without poison oak leaves,

Where I can slake my elder thirst in the tadpole puddles

I hope to see beyond, but I’m naive of the complications

I am tall and my vision’s clear and also still,

Like the scullery sink water and yet,

Something obscures me

A thick film fog beyond the grim,

Slosh the empty vapor on my coat,

Back when i was fingering the acid crumbs from callous brain,

There was a superstitious misunderstanding,

A belief in good luck and maybe karmic strength

The washtub after the jaunt, head trauma insurmountable, maxing out in the green park on the

kiddy swings

We swung high and got some canopy, then came down quickly

That was the closest I ever got,

And it’s a stretch to say I learned anything

Kingston Rivera is a California resident spending his time in lockdown tending to his goats, playing card games, and fixing fences. He writes about memory, generation loss, dreams, and digital lives