Literary jaunts
The following is a poem that features a San Francisco courtship.
By Melissa Chandler
City like a slow rollercoaster.
How to fit onto one page
steaming bowls of rice noodles with pork
and shaved carrots, strong coffee
lovingly defiled by condensed milk,
eucalyptus trees wreathed by fog,
the sky slipping blood-orange and baby-pink
into bed beyond the bridge?
How to fit the small window where we stood
next to our couch on
tip-toes to see that bridge,
headlights and tail lights strung out
like a holiday on Broadway?
In the Mission, Sunday sunlight
made churches out of people and bright
slopes of grass. At Land’s End, piercing green
on the ruins of the Baths, we walked through
caves, our hearts ruined for all
but the rushing of waves.
Were all of our kisses on hills?
If we had a picture of our first kiss,
you would see Coit Tower
lit up like a candle,
narrow stairways through slanted gardens,
trees that perched emerald parrots,
maybe even the rooftop of the pastry shop
that bakes raspberry rings so delicious
they deserve whatever a plane ticket costs
these days.
If we go back to San Francisco,
I hope you and I eat raspberry ring after raspberry ring!
I hope you’ll kiss me again
on an unexpectedly summery evening,
like that one we had
(before everything that came next)
in spring.
Melissa Chandler is a San Francisco aficionado, alum of the city, and longtime writer for The Bold Italic.
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