Marco …

At Pismo Beach there were hollows in the dunes, greasy corn dogs ,

pinball and a built in swimming pool we swam in when it was too overcast to go to the beach

calling Marco or Pollo through squinted eyes

mouths half full of water …

our voices still half- fill the air.

What am i supposed to say then

to the white bricked houses behind this field in Fresno

to the fences guarding those chimneys

Scream ” my little brother is dead?”


for an echo.. an echo of what?

of wind rushing through mallow and pineapple weeds ?

of the sun bouncing off my cheek

so i can inflate the rubber raft ,

drive to the ocean

drag it over the sand where we used to dig for crabs?

Marco Andy.. Marco…

watch for that surprise wave

Marco Andy … Marco…

let it over power me


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