Nothing Real Ever Happens in San Diego

by Alyssa Cox


 
There is a crow on my windowsill  and a retreating heat in the air.  I spent the day walking on my own shadow,  hunting for that horse we saw at the gas station.  The heat, my God, the heat:  nice before you realize it’s going to kill you.    The magnolia leaves are waxy spun sugar in the sun  and their shade is cold as clay.  I dreamed I had a staring contest with a set of headlights  and lost. How long have I been walking  through this desert? Talking to you  when you’re not around,  when you’re a memory under the Joshua tree  that turns blue when I look away.
 
 

 

Alyssa Cox is a fifth-year undergraduate student studying English and Recreation Therapy at California State University, Chico. While mostly a poet, she has dabbled in fiction and novel-writing and has served as a member of the student editor team at Watershed Review. When she’s not studying or working she enjoys getting pleasantly lost while hiking, watching bizarre movies, and starting art projects she rarely finishes.