After the tsunami and meltdown
the fallout drifts towards us.
Cypress trees sway like mothers
with babies perched on hips.
By the Fryman Canyon trailhead,
the wind in an oak grove
creates its own microclimate.

Barefaced above the city,
I remember all the other places
I’ve lived. I am not in love with
another man, but I want to be.
The heart is an electric organ,
the therapist says. Let yourself choose,
she says. It’s a regulatory process.
She listens with her whole face.
I try to forget with my whole body.

Even twice a year a lake turns over,
trading part of itself for the other.
My students often write about
the Northridge earthquake, even though
they’re too young to remember it,
performing a memory created
from story. I wonder if I’ve devised
a story that harms you, living in a place
where the ground grinds until it gives.

The group of seniors who volunteered
for the Fukushima clean up
were nicknamed the suicide corp.
Some disasters are manmade,
others are natural.