When she maps a route through
the labyrinth with a wand
she found buried in the dirt

beneath a copse of brilliant
yellow tamarack trees.

When it’s all so risky:
the robot that drags
the river that floods

then dries up that comes
before down that drink

before anyone sees
that a telescope is not
going to bring the island

back to her now
that everyone wants to leave

this wrecked domain, rock
smashing through
its own orbit.

When it’s loyalty,
or fear, that keeps her

standing inside this cube
with glass hatches. She asks
if she can bring

her guitar to comfort
the prairie. When silence answers

in the way only silence can.

She frees herself
of the final memory,

gets in the car, drives off.
When no one stops her—
the hatch-lined sketch tucked

inside the island’s chalk outline
least of all. She’s gonna give

the real ones away.
When we all believed
California was an island.