Gavin Garza

Why I Still Can’t Talk About IBLP

I-5 — the windshield was fogged with holocene and spear thistle,
      like speedometer needles, stood stiff.  Driving up the declivity,

thirsty, not only was this my first breath of marine layer 

      but the last of my Father’s valley. His gardens were full of thistle,
full of weeds. Weeds tall, nestled within parched perennials and apparitional

      topsoil. Weeds within our picking gloves, weeds within our praying cuticles,

weeds and weeds and weeds who were only ordained to choke,
     that to whom we returned, miraged as mustard seeds.

In hindsight, it’s a wonder how my tongue tore out. I bit from their leaves, 

     I toothpicked their espinas, I spit out their myrrh and chlorophyll,
I hacked their yellowed branches like the sword of Christ’s mouth.

    There are no scriptures where laborers prove worth to landowners, 

only vignettes about passing them at the shoulder. So I sipped off-ramps:
    fresh spirit, more confluence than baptism. I sipped on the bay.

I deserve to be here. I thought, but didn’t suppose.
    And that's when my holocene faded.

This happened, I think. That’s all my body remembers.

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Gavin Garza was raised in the Institute of Basic Life Principles, a Christian cult. Today, he is a Chicano poet studying at the University of California, Berkeley. His work has appeared in MudRoom, Eucalyptus Lit, The /temz/ Review, One Art and several more. Garza serves as a staff editor for the Berkeley Poetry Review and stays rooted to Fresno, California. Find him everywhere @gavinopoet