STATE LINES
California Poetry
At the beginning of a love affair, it’s hard not to feel as if you’re hiking dangerous terrain. Even gaining a foothold can feel both thrilling and treacherous, as Jenny Johnson demonstrates in “Altitudes.” The poem opens with a sensual touch that gives way to an acute fear (or is it a thrill?) of falling. Love poems are generally a private communication, but I like how Johnson sets “Altitudes” in a public space and invites us to watch. One marvelous feature here is the recognizable geography, from El Capitan to “Castro signage blinking/ in pink,” that develops as a metaphor for the sensations of consummated love.
ALTITUDES
Pressed against a pinball machine, a finger slips down, down your blue button-down taps your chest. Granite cliff face, oh El Capitan. And in the blur of champagne you fear looking up! Try and kiss her steady nipple, promise the impossible and gravity will drop. Here her hand hovers a cirrus cloud above Mount Tam, city tilting, slippage on the steering wheel. Below: rush hour miniature on Market, thin outlines of gulls plumbing Ocean Beach, Castro signage blinking in pink. You are so much higher now than on tiptoes before a mirror wetting your hair down, fixated on the asymmetry of a part. You strained in the mirror for a backdrop like this — where a guide at your ear says, keep climbing Jenny Johnson is the author of “In Full Velvet” (Sarabande Books; 2017). She has received numerous awards and scholarships, including a 2015 Whiting Award and a 2016–17 Hodder Fellowship at Princeton University.