Sara Beth Brooks
Valley Oaks
Wind catches the edge of bluegreen and for a moment the sky
is all around us. The fence – not far, and gate locked –
surrounds red concrete. We’re not here for court sports anyway.
We settle on the sea of patchwork spread over dirt and grass,
sandwiches stacked. We turn our backs to the blacktop where
I was bullied in elementary school. That’s not why
we’re here either. A chartreuse canopy covers the spot
where our bicycles lean against twin trunks. Ants skitter along
the roots and orange-black butterflies with their bold wings land
on a pile of ripe strawberries. We’re here because
25 years ago, on an morning such as this, I pierced
the earth with a blade and gifted her these trees. It was not my idea,
myself, but I have grown to love that they exist – and when I first love
someone else, I need them to know that they exist, know that
my childhood was more than broken bones and courthouses.
It was also my hands in the spring soil
delusional with hope that I might grow alongside the trees. A whisper
of breeze reminds me This is here because I’m here.
I wonder: is it possible that these trees will one day
be the only thing left on the earth that I have touched?
Finding Life in Death Valley
Descending the wide hips of the 395,
I argue with my nostalgia for our romance.
Enter the Valley at dawn, where thin wisps
of clouds outstretch their arms, welcome me
to the wasteland of our love. The soft touch
of twilight catches every nook of sand. So many
new ways to experience the color brown.
This is the desert’s desert, hundreds of miles
from anything. I heed warnings to carry
water in the trunk of my car. Being stranded
on the side of the road out here would be deadly
and I’m close enough to both breaking down
and death already.
The marble canyon is 290 million years old
and full of fossils. The salt of the earth cradles
my jaded feet. In the wilderness, I undevote
to that salesman smile and our picket fence future.
I climb sand dunes and log-roll down like a child,
laugh with my whole belly. Remember joy,
who has not visited me since our honeymoon
faded in the rear view mirror.
Yellow flowers bloom, jackrabbits, the ground is spitting
out rocks. Every inch of land, an origin story.
Badlands beg me to abandon what I already know
is dying. This silver band, an anchor for a future
I’m ready to renounce. The sky is wild and alive,
illuminating one thousand possibilities.
The desert heat burns new life into me
but not for us. No. Our love dies
right here in Ballarat.
Land Lament
To live in California is to know
that every place I love will someday burn
or be buried in a watery grave.
It’s not prophecy, it’s history, by which I mean
the past is the future.
To live in California is to be prepared to leave
in the middle of the night. We must go
before we see the flames. The smoke
in the air is enough reason.
If the river crests the levee, it is too late.
Determine what can be packed in under 5 minutes,
swallow the cost of what will be left behind.
Impossible beauty sidelined as climate casualty
trees recast as a hazard.
To live in California is to ask yourself
“Will I die first, or the land?” and
“Who will mourn the trees when we are gone?”
Sara Beth Brooks (she/they) is a queer and disabled self-taught poet and visual artist whose work is in conversation with ancestry, lived experiences, and a vision for a liberated future. Their writing explores grief, identity, illness, relationship, and the vulnerability of human bodies. Sara Beth’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Squawk Back, Rogue Agent, and HNDL Magazine. They teach writing and revision workshops online and lives with her spouse and their tuxedo cat on the unceded territory of the Nisenan people, known today as Sacramento, California. She can be found on Instagram at @supsbb.