San Diego doesn’t get much rain, dessert
that it is, pretending to be tropical. I meant
desert. Pastry suddenly dropped in the dust.
Leave it there, your mother would say.
Your mother would say you can be anything
you want. Your mother would say you never
should have moved away. Your mother would
know, be proud, try to make your mother jokes.
Your mother doesn’t get San Diego.
San Diego doesn’t get your mother jokes.
This is what happens when a place is named
after a poor friar who never knew his mom.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.
Katie Manning is the author of three poetry chapbooks, including The Gospel of the Bleeding Woman (Point Loma Press, 2013). Her poems have been published in Fairy Tale Review, New Letters, PANK, Poet Lore, So to Speak, and many other journals and anthologies. Find her online at www.katiemanningpoet.com.
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