“Giant Dipper Chronic”
I’ve been on this coaster
for decades. Car
for two—but just one bar
to lower—one, or
none. Where I lock my
heart
in for the slow
climb, waiting for what
great heights.
It trundles up the wooden
scaffold, building
the long pitch toward
platinum
surf, alternately
to fog. In one, I hold my
own
hand. Teeth rattle
out of my control; it’s crest
to trough,
each time. Yet I scream
without sound
all the way down. A flash
at the top
takes a photo of your dread
to get you
to buy it back, but—you’re
too
seasoned
for that. Funnel cake, fried
artichokes & bird
shit all hit hard, once
grounded—
more, the no-getting
off. Still, momentum can
hold you
in, if you want
to be held. The last instant
before descent—
just past dusk, timed just
right—
the light-
house across the harbor
might
give out
a wink. You shout & point,
as though to turn
crowds toward this sign.
None
do. Save you,
captive by your stomach’s
capsizing—:
the view is always, only,
there—
for they who
have practiced
riding.
***
“To See It”
All year I had asked
for a sign. Day out,
night in, every thought
dead-ended in such
suit. Before you could see
the surf—hear it, even—:
the crush of eucalyptus
came, soon their cobble of
blue
pods with x-ed out
notches afoot. The crash
of water never stopped
not for you for
nothing. Insistent
the only question was—:
how many earshots
back. I stood so far,
each wave dropped
with the tiniest cymbal-
kiss—& leaned in
for it, but with eyes
shut—how to be
sure? & what if
everything is a sign—:
the windshield cracked
clear across, trailing
like a gentle horizon,
the horizon that rose
to match it? What
of the song foretelling
loss come on every
station at once, then
the bridge crossed
to make it, make it
happen? By some hand-
writing on the wall—all
fragments now—a
complete
clause may surface, spell
out
how to move. Play/
pause. I stopped
at the market, booth
after booth with prices
scrawled in thick
script over cardboard—:
3/$1, $2.50/lb a sign
& a sign & a sign the world
is here for the biting
into. The buying. __X__
here—, you must
decide
Cate Lycurgus’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Best American Poetry, Ploughshares, Kenyon Review, New England Review, and elsewhere. She lives in San Jose, where she interviews for 32 Poems and teaches professional writing. You can find her at www.catelycurgus.com.