___________________
A beginning crepuscular
crepuscular I dream in
deciduous-time
elk crossing over into
fugue-glory behold all
herbaceous loving giants on plains grazing
iridescent carapace radiant against tree bark
jaguars jawlines
juncos jacarandas jellyfish
kindred, our last shared ancestor with octopus,
750 million years ago, primitive worm with
simple eye spots
lichens speak: “upon these rocks we shall build the soil”
mammalian brain
nevermind
obligate personhood manifest
quintessential reciprocity from
sternum to
treeline to
universal umbilicus to soften into one’s
visceral valleys while imagining
wooly mammoths rolling in ecstasy
yarrow-sweet
zest
_____________________
Postcard from Pelican’s Nest
The truth is that a boisterous raft of sea lions
called me back to the water. My pinniped
sirens. It’s high tide and the men are fishing.
I would like to sit with confidence at continent’s
edge & beginning of benthic mystery. Did you
know that, in medieval times, pelicans were said
to feed their young with their own blood? Here
in my pocket, the crab claw has lost its luster.
We’re always at risk of erasure. Walking the beach,
I came across an opening to a cave, an apparition:
an artist and their easel dissolving into driftwood
leaning against rock. And from the heavens, star
shaped creatures fell to sea. I’m told the
“mermaids drink free.” Of course, they do.
___________________
Postcard from Little River
Hello. I’m living in the possibility of this
June morning. Seaside, deer meadow,
quail paradise. In the shade of tall trees,
mushrooms are breaking down complex
matter into useful forms. I’m not talking
about nature’s background music—
it’s the operating system I’m in love with.
But maybe you knew all that. Who were you
before you were born? Were you among
the slight worms who do the most work?
Did you float, with your sun warmed wings
over prairie grasses? Have you ever felt
the dawn on your paws? Were you excited
for the nectar waiting for you?
_______________________
I remember 1878 Market Street
for Michael Sullivan
after Joe Brainerd
I remember 1878 Market Street. Room 303.
I remember the billboard
I lived behind
& the city doves who nested
in the cubby
facing into my room
I remember the stainless
steel sink into which one night I vomited
the whiskey mac & cheese cocktail
& the skylight that leaked holy
water on my Sunday morning head
Sleeping with the floor
& the nighttime chorus
F Market streetcar
I remember Mike my first (San Francisco)
friend who left little gifts
outside my door the framed collage made from dryer
lint entitled “Bodhidharma’s robe after
numerous washings”
I remember a boy
named Bill who lived next door
I remember his overdose
outside my door & the woman
firefighter who tried to revive him
*****
I remember arriving
in a May
and departing in another
I remember ACT UP
meetings in the basement
I remember Sunday afternoons
at the Little Hollywood Launderette
and the guy who cut out
penises from polaroids
to make a collage
while folding his delicates
I remember my night strolls
& being aware of being
cruised while being misgendered
I remember not caring
*****
I remember Thursday, August 13th 1998
Bay Area Reporter headline:
“No Obits”
And thinking how writing
an obituary could be
a final act of love
I remember Mike looking
like a sagacious wire-haired
terrier his
rediscovering vinyl
pouring his working-under-the-
table money into
his sound system knocking on my door
(every other day) to come listen
to each new “Can you hear the difference?”
I remember 1878 Market
the 3rd floor
shower capacious and coronal
throne room used for sex
filming
in the bygone Swedish
part of town
I remember the older queens
calling it
the Viking Hotel
I remember once in Muir woods
Mike resting his cheek
on a pad of wet moss I remember when
I started doing that
in remembrance
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Tiff Dressen was born and raised in St. Paul, Minnesota and now calls Oakland, California home. Their most recent book of poems, Of Mineral, was published by Nightboat Books in 2022. O Hypothalamus, a new chapbook was recently published by palabrosa, a poetry chapbook series curated by Valerie Coulton in Barcelona, Spain. Their writing has appeared in numerous journals, most recently in Conjunctions Online and The Brooklyn Rail. An interview with San Francisco poet Aaron Shurin was published in the LA Review of Books. They are indebted to poetry for helping them navigate, and survive, life in the Anthropocene.
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