Now Are You
by Rebekah Bloyd
Where now are you brother?
—Dan Taulapapa McMullin, “The Doors of the Sea”
In the worn Persian rug on a Munich floor. In the handmade bookcases against a
Santa Fe wall. In the cigarette your younger brother lights up. In the Eames chair ottoman
cleaned of cat pee. In the red-faced watch hugging my wrist. In the womb of Rachel, who
jitterbugs at lunchtime. In the key unlocking a tin of Spam. In the blue-ridged mug that warms
my hand. In the Siamese skirmish in the antique aquarium. In the copper plumbing of a Spokane
bungalow. In the neon tetra your younger brother pockets. In the Music from Big Pink. In the
buttons basket on the hearth. In the Yuban coffee can. In the yellow bar of Dial soap. In the plan
de Paris, framed. In the moon roof of the red Jetta. In Whitewater Preserve, on the Canyon View
Loop Trail. In the particulate gloom of an evergreen charnel. In the two sanctioned pills by the
hemlock tree. In the tax returns, April 15, 2018.
Rebekah Bloyd’s creative nonfiction, translations, and poems have appeared in Harper’s, Poetry, The Cincinnati Review, Catamaran, and elsewhere. Her recent collection At Sea features life in Venezuela, the West Indies, and in California, places where she’s worked, lived, loved, and walked the shifting shore. Rebekah makes her home in San José; she teaches writing and ecological practices at California College of the Arts.