Del Mar

Black hair, Black eyes
looking at the road through as sea of dark
one hand, a finger, none at all.
She decides if we die
hurtling down this road,
this life.

The sea beckons 
with foaming robes of
blue, gray, black, black, black
we are closed in,
in black

We three girls, not so young 
yet children still

Los Arboles, the turn
Clarion, the inn
Vida, Brio, Bustle

The air is salt,
the ocean sweat,
and our car black.


Maybe I shouldn't explain anything, because that would box in the meaning of my poem. But I will, because I feel silly leaving it like this, as though I could ever hope to be an enigma.

Tomorrow I will wake up at 4 am to catch a 6:15 flight to Syracuse, New York, where unlike San Diego, is expecting actual weather. 

Lord, I haven't seen snow in so long. Apparently asides from the interviews (that's why I'm flying to New York), the dress code is casual. Dress like you would at school, they tell me. That would be appropriate. Except that I wear flip flops and shorts to school like my life depends on it.

Anyways, that's all besides the point. I just meant that it's cold up there, which is why I went to Del Mar. For those of you non- espanolers, that's a beach here in San Diego. It hit and passed ninety this weekend, and I wanted to spend as much time as possible in the sun before I stuffed myself into a thick coat and Doc Martens and a liberal dusting of a meth-like white powder. Back East, they call that "snow".

It's warming up here, which is nice because I was getting tired of cold weather. Well, not cold. Coldish, I mean.

So the poem is about Del Mar (hence the name). The first stanza is about my friend Brittany, who was driving. I'm not trying to rat a girl out, but she scares me when she drives. She's so confident that I never think she'll get into an accident, but really, who the hell drives with one hand while spooning the contents of her Sambazon bowl into her mouth with the other? 

"Yo, Nina, put the car in drive for me."

Lord. 

Then, obviously, the next stanza is about the sea as it meets the shore. When you drive along the main road, you can see the ocean on one side. It's so pretty, how it sparkles and wrinkles and folds. 

"The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls..."

The "black" thing is referring to Brittany's car, which is black. Sleek, shiny, man-made. The roar of its engine is lost in the roar of the sea, which is sometimes also black. Different, though.

The stanza with a seemingly random assortment of words is a collection of landmarks in Del Mar. A sign at the turn reads "Los Arboles", but I'm not sure what it means because I never read farther than that. I mean, it's Spanish for "the Trees", but I don't know if they're condos or apartments or a real estate company or whatever. Then, as you drive on, you'll certainly pass the Clarion Inn.

Clarion, like trumpets. Like bells, like the clash of spears. Sorry, "Clarion" just sounds so Camelot-y.

Vida, Brio, and Bustle refer to other small businesses. A nail salon, a boutique, whatever. 

I don't know why I've been writing so much poetry lately, or why I've suddenly gotten so comfortable putting it out on the internet. It's not very good, but I'm getting there.

Hope you're all well.