Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Your Oyster

Your Oyster

The 405 opens up beneath you,
the veins of God. Just hopped on the freeway,
you say later, to others who ask
how you got here. It was easy, you jumped
into it and it led you along.
Traffic is what we use to refer to civilization’s
movement, with us or against
us. Traffic was bad means A plethora of cars
filled with a plethora of humans
all decided to go somewhere at the same time.
We can go anywhere now,
but we don’t. The cities we miss get superimposed
onto the one in which we reside.
I wake up intending to visit a sushi restaurant
or ocean that’s been left behind,
and is now 2600 miles away. They seem so close,
the memories we clamp down on.
Our grip makes them glisten.


  1. Oh, I love this! So tight and so infinite, all at once. The world IS your oyster, Hannah!

  2. I agree with Kathleen: it's a compact little pearl of a poem. :)

    Also, you used plethora. Probably one of my top ten favorite words in the English language!!

    (Would you say I have a plethora of pinatas?...Well, you told me I have a plethora. And I just would like to know if you know what a plethora is. I would not like to think that a person would tell someone he has a plethora, and then find out that that person has *no idea* what it means to have a plethora.) - El Guapo (The Three Amigos)

  3. This is so true and sad...I frequently give up going to a place I love (ocean) or doing something because the short distance away is filled with obstacles...ughh...traffic...ugghhh


  4. I love the image of the veins of God. A gem.

  5. wow. what a great piece!!


The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.