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sparkle + blink 119
© 2025 Quiet Lightning

Cover art “I Dream Where My Eyes Wandered” (2023)

by Helia Pouyanfar
heliapouyanfar.com

“Scrollin’ Joan” and “The Emphysemic Dinosaur” by Clyde Always

first appeared in Light Poetry Magazine
“Foster Love” by KJ Norris is from Unredacted (LuLu Press, 2025)
“Genesis” by Sharon D. Coleman
first appeared in The Nature of Our Times

set in Absara

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quietlightning.org
su bmit @ qui e tl i g h tn i n g . o r g
 ie t lightnin
qu g
curated by
Rhea Joseph + Liz Cahill
featured artist
“I Dream Where My Eyes Wandered” (2023)
helia pouyanfar Plaster cast of ceiling imprints and pillow
20” x 30”
heliapouyanfar.com

Clyde Always The Cautionary Tale

of Scrollin’ Joan 1
The Emphysemic Dinosaur 3
Jack Nancy On Smoking 7
James Morehead An ode to
Moloch! Moloch! Moloch! 11
Stephanie Sherman Slumber Party Rules 13
Stars of David 14
Cesar V. Love Inventory 17
Remember Me like the Mushrooms 18
Still Lost 19
Maya Anne Hello, sir 21
Keith Gaboury To the Daughter I Won’t Father 23
In the Death of Your Boyhood
and Birth of Your Teenagehood 24
Caroline Goodwin Seven For Emmy Lou Packard 27
KJ Norris Foster Love 31
Maria Denney Seventh Street Laundry 33
Sweatshop 35
Kelechi Ubozoh Gemini 37
Sharon D. Coleman genesis 41
Wendy M. Thompson A Note on Black Labor
in California National Parks 43
 et Lightning is sponsored b
Qui y
 Quiet Lightning
A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet
Lightning is to foster a community based on literary
expression and to provide an arena for said expression.

Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the ql board is currently:

Evan Karp executive director

Meghan Thornton treasurer
Kelsey Schimmelman secretary
Connie Zheng art director

Anna Allen Kevin Dublin

Rhea Dhanbhoora Christine No
Sophia Passin

If you live in the Bay Area and are interested in

helping—on any level—please send us a line:

e v an @ qui et light nin g . o rg

 help us invest in a sustainable
e t hi c a l a r t s ecos ys t em

Support us on Patreon
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t h a n k y o u t o o u r pat r o n s

alex abreu catherine montague

sage curtis james morehead
frederica morgan davis sophia passin
chris dillon jessie scrimager
kevin dublin jon siegel
linette escobar katie tandy
ada genavia
mary gayle thomas
chrissie karp
miles karp meghan thornton
ronny kerr brian waksmunski
charles kruger emily wolahan
jennifer lewis edmund zagorin
shannon may connie zheng
- SET 1 -
 de Always
Cly
T h e C a u t i o n a r y Ta l e
of S c r o l li n ’ J o a n
There once was a girl called Scrollin’ Joan
whose face was always glued to her phone.
From the time she was just a couple years old,
day-in and day-out she scrolled and scrolled.
If ever her feed would scroll to a stop,
“No matter,” she’d say. “I’ll scroll to the top.”
She scrolled on vacation. She scrolled on the job.
She scrolled while she buttered her corn on the cob.
She scrolled at the fancy Governor’s Ball.
She scrolled in a truck-stop bathroom stall.
She scrolled in the kitchen and scrolled in the tub.
She scrolled all her fingers right down to the nub.
So, she scrolled with her wrists and she scrolled with
her nose;
once those were all gone, she scrolled with her toes.
She scrolled ‘til her eyes popped out of her head,
then scrolled as she lay in a hospital bed.
She scrolled with the doctor and scrolled with the
nurse.

1
She died of Scrollitis and scrolled in the hearse.
She scrolled as they lowered her into the hole
and, for a millennium, that’s where she’ll scroll,
until archeologists dig up her bones.
They’ll gander and gawk at our primitive phones;
then, in a museum, she’ll perch on a stand—
a skeleton with a device in its hand.
There, mothers will point to this chilling display,
saying: “That’ll be you if you’re scrollin’ all day!”

2 c ly de a l way s
The Emphysemic Dinosaur

Some sixty-million years ago,

in a prehistoric town,
where flakes of hot, volcanic ash
forever tumbled down,
there lived a gruff tyrannosaur
whose claws were tinted brown.

This emphysemic dinosaur

was always blowing smoke
in spite of much admonishment
from fellow dino-folk.
“Keep lightin’ up like that,” they’d say,
“and, soon enough, you’ll croak!”

But, undeterred, he’d load his pipe

with aromatic stuff
and sit beside a lava stream
and puff and puff and puff…
Then, when his pipe had fizzled out,
he’d pack his snout with snuff

and torch the very best cigars

his vendors could import,
plus pack-on-pack of cigarettes
of every size and sort,
although he never rolled his own
(his arms were just too short).

cly de a lway s 3
 A touchy pterodactyl once
swooped low enough to shriek:
“My flightpath is completely blocked
with filthy clouds that reek!”
“Perhaps,” the dinosaur replied,
“you ought to pinch your beak.”

One day, a Karenopterix

approached him, shrill and bold—
his wretched, cancerous demise
she gruesomely foretold.
“Go lay an egg!” he roared. “It seems
you need someone to scold.”

Then, when a bratty proto-chimp

suggested he should vape,
the dinosaur devoured him
before he could escape
and sparked a dart and scoffed: “You should
evolve, ya dirty ape!”

Yearly, his physician would

depress his scaly tongue
and diagnose an early death
from tar-pits in the lung.
“Oh well,” he’d shrug. “At least they’ll find
my fossil looking young.”

But, unbeknownst to him, one night

his final smoke he lit,
and sighed and said: “Perhaps they’re right.
Perhaps it’s time I quit.
Or, at the very least, I guess,
I could cut back a bit…”

4 c ly de a l way s
He snuffed his stubby stogie out
and turned his gaze to space.
Perplexed, he noticed something there
that seemed quite out-of-place.
Then, as you know, an asteroid
exploded in his face.

cly de a lway s 5
 Nancy
Jack

O n S m o ki n g
There are a great many wonderful feelings
in this world
most of them involve smoking cigarettes
a smoke in slippers with a clean scalp on a foggy
evening
after a scalding shower
a smoke shortly after treating someone to an orgasm
and better yet if you too have been treated to one
a third smoke after the first sip of a second martini
bonus enjoyment if no one else in the bar
has decided it is their time to smoke
doubled if the night is either warm enough
to be in a t-shirt
or cool enough for a handsome coat
two cigarettes before a flight
a hard fought cigarette while waiting for your flight
by departing and then reentering the airport
one cigarette after the flight
before you’ve picked up your bag
a second upon returning to the outside

7
 with bag in tow
before, after and in the midst of a multi-course meal
to get away from a funeral
to get away from a wedding
after a palm reading
before a doctor’s appointment
to reaffirm in yourself that it is in fact your body
and you may do as you please with it
during a therapy session
when you are high on a drug of your choice
when tobacco is your only drug
in a foreign country
bonus if that country is Japan or Mexico
Japan at night, Mexico in the morning
afternoon in Morocco
after leaving a gas station
on a train up a river
in a window seat if applicable
on top of a train moving at a reasonable pace
bonus if it is in Kerala or Guangzhou province
in a race-car
amidst a time-slip
on a pirate ship on the precipice
of an apocalypse in retrospect

8 J a c k N an c y
under the moon a detective
hard-done by the wreckage
of a marred intellect, selective
reasoning turned case cold
a cigarette in youth, or two when you’re old
ten cigarettes for television
three for revolution, thirty if you’re losing
in times of clarity
much more importantly in confusion

Ja ck Nancy 9
 es Morehead
Jam
An ode to
M o l o c h!
Moloch! Moloch!

Thank you to the book-banners

and their deities draped in thin skins
to the torch-bearers of morality
ever igniting never-read kindling
Thank you to Ginsberg for his Solomon beats
verse heard around the world that began
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed
typeset in Ferlinghetti’s Pocket Poet Number Four
Thank you to the Collector of Customs MacPhee
for confiscating 520 copies of Howl
to the righteous Police Officer Woods
for his seventy-five cent sting at City Lights
Thank you to the San Francisco Chronicle copy editors
for Iron Curtain on the Embarcadero
in boldface print
to the reporters the window shoppers the Bible-thumpers
for crowding the aisles in Judge Horn’s courtroom
Thank you to Deputy District Attorney McIntosh for
questioning
Is that word “snatches” relevant to Mr. Ginsberg’s
literary endeavor?
to the Puritans and their lighthouse lamps
for illuminating all that is forbidden
so we may seize it
11
 nie Sherm
e pha an
St
Slumber Party Rules

1. No boys.

2. No gossiping about boys.

3. No practicing boy kisses on girls. Boys won’t feel

like velvet melting chocolate wet on your tongue.

4. No closets, except the open ones,

garments flung on beds, limbs intertwined,
painted fingers interwoven, sequins and girl
whispers, girl moans, and girls doing what
always
came

as natural to us as trying on each other’s skin.

Fuck
the drunk ex-boyfriend calls.

Comb my fingers through your ribs.

I’ll lick the gloss on your lips.

Once the morning

comes,
let’s stop pretending to be friends.

13
 Stars of David

My people
(whoever they may be)
know that stars belong to no nation state,
that stars guide nomads, migrants,
and escaping slaves.

My people
(whoever they were)
followed the stars for thousands of years.

My ancestors clung to the stars,

hung stars around their necks
as their synagogues burned.

Our star symbol came from Islam

because once we were one.

There are poems of stars

etched somewhere in my bones
in a language I can’t understand,
reminding me I come from no place
but from a people.

My ancestors never had a flag.

Flags rarely caressed my ancestors.
Flags are posts pierced into flesh.

14 S t e ph an i e S h e r man
I look to the stars,
not the flags, to heal my ancestors’ wounds.

Across the world in a place I’ve never been,

I might have a far-removed cousin
waving a machine gun at a child
beneath a blood-soaked blue star
on white flag, backed by white stars on blue,
in my people’s name.
No—not in my people’s name.
In a flag’s name.
Not in my name.

Razor sharp blue star

and white stars burning,
bulldozing, bombing, bludgeoning,
choking children who look to stars
in the night sky to guide them home
to their parents’ ghosts.

Heal my long lost bloodlust cousins

till their teenagers are never taught
to touch weapons.

Heal their great-grandparents’ wounds.

Rewind time.
Heal young Hitler.
Heal the Nazis before they could exist.
Unpin all the yellow stars from coats.

Rewind all the genocides and remove them

till the children grow up to have children
who plant gardens instead of minefields.

St e p h ani e Sh e rman 15
 Extract the flags staked in soil.

Heal our wounds

till the blood leaves the stars
and the wounded stop wounding.

Wash the flags till the stars come off them

and float to the sky
to guide us all safely home.

16 S t e ph an i e S h e r man
 ar V. Love
Ces

In v e n t o r y

I am removing items from my refrigerator

Cheeses that wouldn’t save
Vegetables that had hoped for another day
Strange meats forgotten in the attic

There is rancid stuff in jars

There is wilted stuff in baggies
I acknowledge them and say good-bye

In the basement
There is a unique kind of sweet potato
Which was given by a friend
I had forgotten about them both

17
 Remember Me like the
Mushrooms

Spongy yet dry

Earthy but otherworldly as well

Phallic but not obviously so

After deep rains

I’ll emerge through the grass.

A cameo

But not a complete surprise.

Safe

But not everyone will know that.

18 C e s a r v. L ov e
 Still Lost

Today, I found my jacket

It had fallen from a hanger in my closet.
Yesterday, I found my glasses
They were spread on my kitchen table.
The day before, I found the overdue library book
It had dropped behind my bookshelf.
The day before the day before, I found my keys
They were lolling below my desk.

Still lost: the lyrics to that song

Maybe they lie on the floor of my closet.
Still lost: my philosophy
Maybe it’s sprawled on my kitchen table.
Still lost: my train of thought
Maybe it hides behind my bookshelf.
Still lost: my way
Maybe it lurks below my desk.

Ce sa r v. Love 19
 Maya Anne

H e l l o , si r

I wake up in the morning

To a man on my right side of the bed.
I do not know him in the new day,
But my body
Does not alarm me, I think he lives here
I think
I am safe.
There’s a man coming home,
And I am in the kitchen
Waiting,
To scare him in the crevice of the spice cabinet.
He won’t see me coming.
How will he react?
Today is different, and so is he.
But again,
My body does not sense
Any unpleasantry.
There’s a man who made me tea, with dried bits of
flower and leaves.
Hot water, steeps.
I thank him, for thinking of me.
But who is he?
I look to where he paints
Small figurines
And I ask myself
Is this creature-man
Meant for me?
21
 th Gaboury
Kei
T o the Daug hte r
I Won’t Father,

you’re shriveled up like a raisin within my raisin-

skinned right testicle in a XY body I’ve claimed
possession of since a C-section slice when my mother
gifted me life under the Scorpio sign.

At an Ocean Beach bar I want to forget, a fresh wave

slams against you being born once a wavy hair brunette
tsunamis her gaze away. She’s anchored to a future
without us. I can read it in the sky’s Virgo and the
Virgo in her eyes.

Without you scampering my genetic footfall across

buffalo grass, you won’t feel your first cry or cut or
sunburn under a July sun that drowns in cerulean
wavelengths.

At the bent elbow of 45th and Noriega, I stride to buy a

tallboy at J.M. Liquor.

Living room lights smile. With the Scorpio cluster

glowing within my brain, a sunken couch swallows me
in one gulp as I snack on raisins and slurp from the
chilled can. When a frame of Full House flickers
on, I change the channel to a herd of buffalo
stampeding across the screen.

23
 In the Death of Your
Boyhood and Birth of Your
Teenagehood,

do you remember the hooded memory of when your

father grilled a slaughter of steaks on a July 4th grill
that swung open like a carnivorous mouth?
In your teenagehood’s C-section beginning, do you
remember drifting like an untethered astronaut into
the black hug of space at the planetary edge of your
family’s orbiting chatter?
In the 1st swallows of your teenage nutrition, do you
remember a 200-gram steak sliding past your Adam’s
ripening Apple? The tender juiciness flowed from
3,000 liters of water needed to hydrate cattle born to
die in an America born to eat.
Did you absorb in freshman year math 3,000 liters
of water is half a swimming pool? Put another way,
enough to look safe until your spinal cord snapped.
In your wheelchair, you chew a medium rare steak
served with snap peas and a watered smile.

24 K e i t h G ab our y
- SET 2 -
 ol ine Goodw
C ar in

Sev r
Emmy Loeun FPo
ackar d

bright and a little savage

came the field—came light
over the rows of artichoke
and what closed around
the throat was a small hand
in the shape of a whip-
poor-will—singing at the forest
floor the notes in a rift
in the moss—came territory
and power lines and the barrens—
the great brushstrokes—a hat covering
the eyes and you at the very
edge—how lightly you carried
your sketchbook—wore
your heels

cauldron, the creatures in your dreams, the rain

lashing, the rainy season
vegetable garden tiny eyes and black drops, raindrops,
a man’s forearm
in the leaves in the spikes, amphibious, trembling,
the delicate haunches

27
 ~

wore your hair—a system

of ropes—and that which caught
the yellow light also caught the voice
his voice leaning into
the cypress—everywhere and nowhere
the nothing that is not there
erased in the shadow—when your knife
cut the yoke—the keg of tallow
the skids the bull chain the bridle
the slip-knot—cut the block
into strands each strand a song
over the rooftops—as if

you were to come home again, in the evening, after

the day, work-worn, worm-
wealth, carrying the branches, the brayer and blade,
carrying the trunk the lumber
cut through the porch and into the kitchen, as if the
whole organism could crumble

gold or a garnet-laden crown

where the back of the head
peeks through—slick as a mask
and glittering—vitreous
bird’s eye at the yard’s edge
refracted—every morning
gathered in your arms—a gift
of frost along the fence

28 C a r ol i n e G o o dwi n
 a bittern in the reeds—thorn
bracelet and amulet—
conifer board foot hardwood
making its way down the rib-
cage—each spore a vertebra
lining the fronds—igniting
the retina

and the smooth muscle of the heart, helical, math-

ematical, sacred and tough, in
the evening a spiral ornament, a stray cat at the gate
her tail atremble her voice an onion
skin, so much hunger so many calls coming in under
the grass blades, terrestrial

a vestibule a spiderweb a sign

in the distant glitter—in
a glass bead an awl a crewel
stem—worsted weight—
and vibrant in the green embroidery
is the medicine arriving—
a whole sun a dragonfly entire
head of the yarrow blossom
and one california morning
shimmering silver silky thistle—
glossy dusky slender tiny—
blue bees and a solitary
nester and a handful of seeds
of a handful your handful
your pupil

Ca roli ne Goodwi n 29
Emmy Lou Packard (1914–1998), was an American
visual artist and social activist in San Francisco, Cali-
fornia. She was known for her paintings, printmaking,
and murals, which were often political. When she was
thirteen, she met Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo; she
later lived with them in Mexico and worked closely
with Rivera, as his assistant, on several mural projects.
After their first meeting in 1927, Rivera described
Packard, as “a blond, melancholy little girl, with the
face of a French gothic angel, embarrassed and shy,
bright little savage—”.

30 C a r ol i n e G o o dwi n
 KJ Norris

F o st e r L o v e

April 13, 2025

being a foster mother means
watching everyone your age
hold their bellies
then their babies
while I’m holding space
with makeshift grace

it’s math that doesn’t math

I would have been in middle school
if I had her myself
the responsibility of a parent
but the appearance of an older sister
my raw name in direct address
Mom only to friends
because it is easier that way

it’s jumping right to the “hard parts”

instead of crawling on the living room floor
it’s crawling through distrust and trauma
instead of baby steps with tiny feet
it’s court dates and treatment plan progress
instead of sending family members baby pictures
it’s receiving them from their family–
memories you didn’t make yourself
and a reminder that extends to the child, too

31
 it’s watching their love/hate relationship
with your carefully curated home
it’s being family without being a relative–
loving beyond resemblances and similarities,
knowing full well they may never return
that unbounding love–
the love that cuts you into pieces
so they can take a souvenir of you
when they leave

it’s outsiders assuming

you’re only “in it for the money”
because they don’t know these costs
and that there is no reimbursement check
that could possibly be in the correct amount
it’s dollar amounts on something priceless
and the secret is I’d do it for free
because being a foster mother
is the best thing I’ve ever done

being a foster mom means

watching trust be born again
supporting relationships in healing
serving as the safest space you can—
the safe space you never had
it’s watching identity morph and grow
exploration on new frontiers every day
it’s hope that you can model resilience
so their kids can learn it one day, too
it is seeing generational cycles break
into something new
being a foster mother is tough, that’s true
but it’s the best thing I’ll ever do

32 KJ Norris
 ia Denney
Mar
S e v ent
h St r e e t L a u n d r y
My mom was eleven-years-old in 1960 when her
family immigrated from Hong Kong to San
Francisco.
My grandfather (Gong Gong) started a laundry
business in the South of Market neighborhood at
219 Seventh Street.
Because my mom was the oldest child, she went to
the laundry every day after school.
She would iron men’s T-shirts and underwear.
Sometimes she would burn them when the iron was
in one place too long.
Gong Gong tallied people’s clothes in pencil so if
an item was lost or damaged, he could erase the
number to change it.
He couldn’t afford to replace the item.

Each laundry load was given a number.

Mom would safety pin the number to each article of
clothing.
Every sock, t-shirt, undergarment, blouse, dress
and dress shirt.

33
 She can fold a fitted sheet in the air with her arms.
She doesn’t need to lay it on a table, like me.
Mom did not get paid to work at the laundry every
day, where it was open six days a week, fifty-two
weeks a year.
Sometimes Gong Gong would give her some coins to
buy a magazine or see a movie. She loved James
Bond films with Sean Connery,
Full of action and adventure, gadgets and technology
in exotic locations.
A respite from folding and ironing other people’s
clothes.

34 M a r i a D e nne y
 Sweatshop
My Chinese grandmother (Por-por) worked in a
sweatshop in San Francisco.
The only English she knew was, “Hello, bye-bye and
thank you.”
She sewed women’s clothes.
She would take muni bus #8 to Chinatown to go to
work.
She was paid for each piece she sewed.
She would have a pile of sleeves that were cut by
someone else.
She was paid ten cents for each piece.
If she could sew ten pieces in an hour she would earn
a dollar.

There was no minimum wage,

No health benefits,
No vacation days,
No social security contributions,
No retirement account,
No stock options.

Ma ri a De nne y 35
 She would bring work home.
I remember an old black Singer sewing machine and
dozens of large spools of thread in all different
colors.
She didn’t get home from work until ten o’clock at
night.
She left her ten-year-old daughter to care for her
younger siblings who were ages seven, five, three
and one at the time.
Por-por worked in a sweatshop for forty years.
At her funeral they said she was a seamstress in the
textile industry.

36 M a r i a D e nne y
 i Ubozo
lech
Ke h

G e m in i

I fall in love with my friends.

Worship at their altars,

offerings of mixtapes, movie ticket stubs,

canary colored concert tickets, tattered club wristlets.

Slumberless sleepovers.
Kept secrets whispered at dawn.

Unexpected snow day.

Playlist with your favorite songs.

Liberating fire hydrants,

dancing in the stream,

boundless and free.

Picked first on the team.

Passing origami notes

containing crushing crushes.

Unmasked and seen.

Loved unconditionally.

I am the one she calls at 2am

to talk about him,

37
 the unworthy jester,
time waster.

Pledge allegiance to the asshole.

He is always the same boy-child

in different bodies.
Charming with wide-tooth fangs,

ego bruiser, sexy unavailable.

I still think of that lost Gemini.

Waking me up at 2.
Weekend overstuffed suitcase packed.

Witch cackling howls of joy.

Faces of 2,

mask always brighter, conceal.

I prefer the unpolished her, make-up free, real.

She is the gem in the eye

of all that behold her.

I still think about that lost Gemini

splitting my heart in 2.

She Ghosted.
I’m Haunted.

Conditions for unconditional love shifting,

chilly contradictions.

38 K e l e c h i U b o z oh
Ripped me open,
stole our magic.

Decaying Giving Tree.

Did I love too much?

Patheticness pouring out of pores.

Exhausted.

Phone on redial.
Just too much me.

Is attention seeking toxic

when it’s nutrients for survival?

Well, I’m fucking starving.

Since she fled with no words.

Haven’t loved quite the same,

haven’t worshiped as easily.

I shapeshift like those fuckbois.

Know what to say or when to leave.

Be the friend you need,

But never need.

Ke le ch i Ubozoh 39
 ro n D. Colem
S ha an

g e n e si s

the planting beds have returned to clay

in the hot evening sun coming aslant

over the grayed wooden fence, skimming

my bare shoulder, neck sticky with salt,

i step between fat purple plums—fallen

and fermenting—on the brick path my mother

weeded, seated in a red wagon, the last

summer of her life. it’s not easy

to balance on the bricks, now sunken

or raised. the basin of my hips cradles

gravity in the soft denim that hugs them.

i am alone in the garden after years

of dressing wounds, wheeling her chair,

now reaching sweaty to the profusion

of low-hanging plums my mother waited

for after years of drought and a flash of rain

on the spring days of pollination. which

ones are dark enough to be sweet? soft

41
 flesh in my dry hands. i stretch up between
towering weeds, loose privet, feathery

foliage of asparagus, artichokes opening

to lavender bloom. alone enough to be

spent, to bring the sticky juice to split lips,

to leave behind a cracked heart to the heat

and clay and strangers’ hands that may or

may not tend the garden as gates close to me.

42 S h a r o n D. C o l e m an
 d y M. Thomps
en on
W
A n
CalifNote on Black Labor i arks
ornia National P

1. NOTE # 1: BUFFALO SOLDIERS IN SEQUOIA

NATIONAL PARK, 1899, 1903, and 1904

The first man to look up

See a tree bigger than g-d
Coniferous
Body bigger than Noah’s Ark
Ride five horses inside

You from Kentucky never seen such a plant, man, or

animal stand that close to Heaven

You stand in formation

You stand at ease

Under a canopy of blue oak,

and at higher elevations, ponderosa and sugar pine
among the red fir.

The South don’t grow like this, you say.

Your man on the left from Louisiana begs to differ.
Y’all argue about it over stewed potatoes and coffee
until the man from Alabama tells you both to shut
the hell up.

43
The year is 1903, and in nineteen years, the last Cali-
fornia grizzly bear will be killed here in a meadow
a few miles from the boundary line that marks the
beginning of Kings Canyon National Park.

This is what you all were summoned from the

Presidio to do: build a park.
And so, you did.
Clearing and creating roads, manning the boundary
lines (like the one the grizzly bear would be killed
near in that meadow); confronting illegal poachers
and loggers, soft-toed white men who would spit on
the boots of a black man in uniform.
In formation, you rode sixteen days from the Pacific
Coast to the valley, the heat pressing your shirt to
your chest, your saddle pressing into your pelvic bone,
aggravating your limp.
(An old injury you associate with the Indian Wars.
Fell off your horse in combat with the Kiowa.)

You mentioned it and the man from Georgia concurs:

Man, [spits tobacco] I’d a killed this horse if we hadda ride
on one more day. It was either him or this [grabs crotch of
trousers]. And I ain’t goin’ home with no broke d_ck.

At night, you fear rattlesnakes. During the day,

mountain lions. You wash your hands and neck in
creeks. You bathe in the river.

You are alive in a freedom dream that is bigger than

the edge of any plantation.

Nature this beautiful can’t hold all this outward-

bound South.

44 W e n dy M . T h o mpson
2. NOTE # 2: CIVILIAN CONSERVATION CORPS
IN YOSEMITE, 1933-1942

in memory of Eugene Stewart

My best friend’s father

who is no longer with us,
and is, in essence,
part of these trees, the seeds and pollen, the earth,
the grasses, the water, the birds, the fog, the small,
medium, and large mammals, this season, the climate,
the wind moving through it all: nature and the
mixed-use luxury live love loft buildings, freeways,
and vehicular congestion,

told her that black folks helped build the national

parks.

That some of these folks were young people who

built trails

past

slab granite
and devastatingly tall cliffs
and long-hair falling over the edge waterfalls
and meandering streams that seem to age like our
grandparents
and insular groves of trees that wondered
why people kept walking through their private
meditations
and mirror lakes with good lighting
and moving mountains and colorburst meadows.
You see all them flowers?

We ndy M. Th omp son 45

Sierra beardtongue
Applegate’s Indian paintbrush
Little elephant’s head
Henderson’s shooting star
Arrowleaf groundsel
Alpine columbine
Brewer’s lupine

For a people who lived through many Great Depressions,

this was an era when a stable job and some coin
in the pocket
went a long way past being railroaded
as a Scottsboro Boy.

Young black corpers in segregated and integrated CCC

camps

stood at the edge of g-d,

looked over cliffs and touched granite,
felt the baptismal spray of mist
from waterfalls over 600 feet high,
sliced their hands in the cool nervous system of a stream,
prayed and sang into the rings of giant sequoias
(those trees heard their groove–still talk about it amongst
themselves, wonder if they’ll ever hear something like it
again),1
saw their own black selves reflected back in lakes
bigger than the patch of land they mama n’em
picked cotton on,
knew Chicago, St. Louis, and Cleveland
lived on the other side of the Sierra Nevada,

1
If you identify as black and happen to sing to a giant sequoia in Yosemite National
Park, please reach out and let me know about the experience on Instagram @
thegreatblackoutdoors

46 W e n dy M . T h o mpson
 picked native flowers in meadows,
weaving the color and stem through
their fingers and hair.
You see all them flowers?

Ranger’s buttons
Mountain pennyroyal
Baby blue eyes
Cinquefoil
Alpine aster and goldenrod
Tufted poppy
Mountain dandelion

We have always been a race to adorn and adore.

In some ways, through some lens, in some wilderness,

Jim Crow can’t stop what’s beautiful.

He is here. They were there.

There is no scale to measure grief and how that man,

who is my best friend’s father, is not here but is here
in this place, and in so being, continues to map over
800 different ways to be black and alive in nature.

There is no scale to measure black labor and the ways

that those trails, built by one and many black boys
and men in the Civilian Conservation Corps, became
the path to great beauty, wildness, freedom, and
spiritual connection.

How a generation
of black folks mapped over 800 miles
for America to be in nature.

We ndy M. Th omp son 47

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