We’re in San Francisco, staying with your
ex and his husband and their sweet pitbull.
We’ll drive Highway 1 until dusk sets in
and we have to head back to Half Moon Bay
to see the horses. But for now we fly
along the edge, toward Pescadero,
stopping there to watch waves crash on rocks,
scrambling out into the sea. Tidepools
are full of life: salty, skittering, cold.
You catch a crab for me and we watch as,
nearby, a family gathers seaweed,
glassy jade strings against the blue and grey.
I grasp the silver ring in my pocket,
gathering courage, hoping you’ll say yes.
god america i 
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