II. Lunch in Cantabria by Eliza Rosenthale

listened to the grandfather clock. I knew that somebody out there believed in her, long

after he was gone. I tried to catch her, but she ran away too fast.

—Lunch in Cantabria

On the way there We talk with our hands and our eyes In the back seat So hungry we are manic Mini van swaying through blue mountains Some dizzyingly close Some so far they look like tissue paper In the lavender sky

The meal Is in a town made entirely of ancient stone And they serve ancient stew Beans and blood sausage Seafood in sour red broth Clam shells clanking in harmony With our coos of gratitude Cinnamon-infused pork loin Softer than the apple compote Papas fritas soak up sweet juices Muchos gracias, gracias, gracias

On the way home All heads turned out windows Tryptophan dreams Mountains swelling into sky Now deep purple Drifting off to the hum Of Jack Johnson’s acoustic guitar Trusting the mountains to carry us home

— nature walk

the sun shone high that spring afternoon after days of drowning in rain left us in a soft, wide-eyed haze pay attention to the light emphasize with color

we walk through the pine tree forest screaming in black and white yet the water sustains me - ask me about my safe place

a trail of breadcrumbs that you leave in your footsteps with animal holes in the ground - a map you create for me before we say goodbye

mechanical birds move through the sky i’d like to imagine that they can see us waving to them

just for a moment, let’s be still and maybe one day, they’ll come to a landing

—a grapefruit

peeling back the layers of a grapefruit its skin crusting the fingertips Pink flesh with an acrylic texture laying across the silver platter in a state of naked vulnerability