shows Mount Diablo in the distance:
the last time they think a grizzly killed a man
was 1865, Strawberry Canyon.
This was also the last reported sighting.
The dregs of that canyon’s creek slices Berkeley campus.
They killed the biggest ever found in California
in Valley Center earlier that decade. 1868,
the UC opened: lux fit. Last summer
we drove out to tour lavender farms, got lost
off the 395, argued, gassed up,
got there, were made
serene. “Grizzly” describes
the golden and grey tips of its hairs: golden
poppy, alumni who Bleed Gold. Tan splashing children.
Students jump Strawberry Creek’s narrow parts
to get to class. It rarely rains, so the creek
Saw Amanda in neon and black—
Drank coconut water, agreed to meet at their party garage,
Glittered at the mouth and touched brows,
Bought potato chips ending up spicy, walked over twenty blocks,
Went with to get ice cream pressed between two cookies,
Drank coffee at ten and later at seven, showered,
Dragged shoes and blue clothes—
Bruised one hip on a table, kept silent from arrogance,
Kept silent from fear, was needy,
Was critical, took it bad when Carlos called “sweetie,”
Saw Andrew and told him to call if ever not well,
Read over a shoulder Voltaire “go to heaven,” caught a lot of periphery,
recognized the great joke of the process—
Kayla Krut is a fellow at the Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Her work has recently appeared in minor literature[s], Contemporary Verse 2, and American Chordata, and is forthcoming in the Berkeley Poetry Review. She is from California.