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Vestiges of Sea Pilgrims

Vestiges of Sea Pilgrims K A R E N A N - H W E I L E E Water on Sunset Boulevard On Los Angeles's 230th anniversary, Emily Dickinson and I cruise the city. Vernal greenery. We stay on Sunset in search of water. Two unlikely sisters, Emily and I are a pair of cool Berkshire fronds this afternoon. Atlantic sea pilgrims. Woodland ferns. I grew up in Massachusetts before moving to greater Los Angeles. Emily, who lived in the Berkshires her entire life, is no longer alive. Fiddleheads and orchid kin. Lady slippers. No shops, no boutiques, no dermatologists, no glass edifices. Ornamental shade only, trees never sacrificed for poles or coffins. I talk while driving even if no one's there. To live at the end of a blind driveway, I say. You mean an unseen one, Emily says. We drive on Sunset, rows of trees: cedars, stands of white pine, evergreens, junipers twisted in funnel clouds. Blindness. Trees conceal the houses, glimpsed now and then. Our childhood in Massachusetts, I say. Trees, trees, murmurs Emily. The boulevard curves past a cast-iron Bel-Air gate, no signs except citadels of trees. Basilicas of air. Groves of sky. I lived here as http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

Vestiges of Sea Pilgrims

Manoa , Volume 24 (1) – Aug 4, 2012

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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2008 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x
Publisher site
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Abstract

K A R E N A N - H W E I L E E Water on Sunset Boulevard On Los Angeles's 230th anniversary, Emily Dickinson and I cruise the city. Vernal greenery. We stay on Sunset in search of water. Two unlikely sisters, Emily and I are a pair of cool Berkshire fronds this afternoon. Atlantic sea pilgrims. Woodland ferns. I grew up in Massachusetts before moving to greater Los Angeles. Emily, who lived in the Berkshires her entire life, is no longer alive. Fiddleheads and orchid kin. Lady slippers. No shops, no boutiques, no dermatologists, no glass edifices. Ornamental shade only, trees never sacrificed for poles or coffins. I talk while driving even if no one's there. To live at the end of a blind driveway, I say. You mean an unseen one, Emily says. We drive on Sunset, rows of trees: cedars, stands of white pine, evergreens, junipers twisted in funnel clouds. Blindness. Trees conceal the houses, glimpsed now and then. Our childhood in Massachusetts, I say. Trees, trees, murmurs Emily. The boulevard curves past a cast-iron Bel-Air gate, no signs except citadels of trees. Basilicas of air. Groves of sky. I lived here as

Journal

ManoaUniversity of Hawai'I Press

Published: Aug 4, 2012

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