by Nic Sattavara

California soils leech for rain
like fire borders on lost flora

& fauna at the San Andreas Fault. 
South of the 405, brush like trees 

are cordoned off in preservation
of lost soils. When I climbed

a tree, I saw your eyes, Cathy,
as I clutched a downed powerline 

in my hands: the voltage enough
to kill an adult of full health.

I’ve been meaning to tell
you when Michigan was colder

than Siberia during the Polar
Vortex, my family huddled

in one room after the furnace
froze at -20 degrees; our brood

told us to take care. I’ve been meaning
to tell you we’ve always known

of ghost forests in the Northwest
when whole swaths of the Pacific

ruptured five centuries ago. Mt Rainier
thrust ash into clouds. Lava flows

covered dirtpaths. Buried homes
whole. Exhumed forests in subduction.

Made currents with mud against
mountains. Collapsed cliff unearthing

Red Cedars & Sitka Spruce. Now
ghost forests show up on our Google

screensavers, the stock footage inviting
a hike to barren beaches. I’ve been

meaning to tell you, we didn’t listen
when the First Nations people moved

people moved to higher ground 
because white people never do. 

I’ve been meaning to tell you the bees
will always die & the farmer

at the market will always 
tell me his bees thank me

for my contribution to their combs. 
I’ve been meaning to tell you

that when San Francisco is lit
with orange haze, we wear our pandemic

plague masks indoors & no new 
laws are made. I’ve been meaning

to tell you that I know how you felt, Cathy 
when you were airlifted, from the Sierra 

Mountains, your lungs quaking like a military 
boot held you down in the soot, a loop

I can’t escape. I’ve been meaning to tell
you my bones will still break as the crops burn & burn..