In Defense of Hella

Praise this relic of an endless California

summer housed in my throat.

How it spills over like a fist

 

full of gold coins & refuses to apologize

for its excess. When I say hella

I mean I dipped my feet

 

in the San Francisco Bay

& watched a mountain

of doubloons rise up

 

& glitter around my waist. Hella

is how I measure Telegraph

Avenue from Fox Theater

 

to the empty lot on Haste–

the one with the word stolen

graffitied over a sunset.

 

Hella redwoods outlived

Columbus & Cortés

& hella people buried beneath

 

the roots did not. Hella

is the count of ancestors

who blossom across California

 

& Mexico & how many cities

have been built

from their bones. Hella is each

 

new brick & cobblestone street

I am not native to

but still call home. I know it’s better

 

I left for Boston, for somewhere

that snows. Here–I can walk

through a cemetery & only notice

 

the flowers. I am tired of mourning

ancient thievery & there is enough

displacement happening

 

without me collecting avenues

to fill my pockets.

When I say hella I mean here

 

are all the people I carry with me

made of gold.