Sand Dollars

Have you ever known someone

who performs a victory jig

after discovering a perfect sand dollar at low tide?

I have.

She once flew 3000 miles with LSD stashed in her ass

to cook me a special psychedelic lasagna.

She once made me eleven mix tapes

and titled them The Fuck Truck Series.

Polaroids included.

She once cleared the house of my dead husky’s things.

She once collaged a birthday card for me.

She once translated rain for me.

We once drove over a magisterial bridge on the Oregon Coast

singing Eddie Money’s “Two Tickets to Paradise.”

She sauntered into my life

wearing

a green negligee,

a purple choker,

and struck the rock

with her staff of mystery,

whereby the water

of my creative mind

burst forth.

I betrayed her,

for a frivolous, dangerous ass

I never touched.

I’ve stopped eating lasagna

and never listen to the mix tapes.

Every time I discover a perfect sand dollar,

I pick it up,

admire,

and leave it behind.