At the airport, I thought of my father,
of wet pavement,

smoke in my hair and a smell like

I had expected rain, cold water
I could feel with the collapsing and
re-inflating of my chest.

I wanted to grab and collect the air,
pull it close to my face like a carefully selected
grapefruit, pungent citrus rind,
something I’m so afraid of forgetting.

I expected rain, but the sun was out
on the first day. I heard someone

mention the depression
from the weather,
a craving for
vitamin D —

I felt myself dissolving into the ground
with the rain
the old bones
the animals and plants that sunk into the earth with all that water.

In the dark, I could barely see the
outline of a river, the mountains,
volcanoes I was told about by
people back home.

My jacket smelled like marijuana, the
inside of my throat and nose burning,

and breathing branches of fire like floating ribs
into the night.