here
where the trees mask the sun
here
where the deer darts across
here
where the pavement ends
here
where i have my heart.
i can’t take an adequate photo
so i won’t attempt to
but as my best friend
rests her tires on the red dirt
(am i in my native land,
surrounded by air so thick
with moisture that it pops
out of my pores?)
i know that for today,
this moment,
this ride,
no matter how many miles
lie between
here
and
there
i will always have
you here with me.
they may appear to be innocent:
barns white as new fallen snow,
idyllic as Mother Nature on
this absent-of-traffic meandering road.
in the early morning light, you
won’t hear the muffled sounds of death
clucking their way out of the
forever-closed doors and windows.
yet for half a mile or more, a circle
of stench radiates into the dewy dawn,
asking only that you take this memory
with you to the chicken aisle of the market.
no matter how many times
i strap on this helmet
measure my miles
and make these turns
riding on you is like
the first kiss that i have
kept trapped inside my
fantasies for so long
that my lips (legs) move
into yours as
deliciously as love, love,
love in its purest form.
I never quite realized
(though I’ve complained
about it many times)
just how much you
fill the world with sound.
In the quiet loneliness of today,
I ache for the boisterous noise
of your sing-song voices,
needing the silent rooms
of this empty house to be
filled with your world of sound.
The days are long between
you and I, but I will gather
up my to-do list, read my
books and magazines
without a single interruption,
and wait, ever-so-quietly wait,
to listen to your world of sound.
Isabella
While at first reluctant,
you have given in to riding
our connected bicycle,
stating quite simply, in your
I’m-seven-and-overheard-your-conversation
voice, “I want to spend time with you.”
Your keen observations along the route,
of roads previously untraveled,
family sightings, and hill monitoring,
only add to the noticeably stronger
pedal power that you offer.
We beat them home and you are as
proud as a new mother, displaying our
connected contraption with hands
outspread in a beauty queen pose,
our time together warranted by
your everlasting desire to win
(oh how I already know you
will always, always win).
Mythili
We are at the beach.
It may be fake (a river turned into a lake),
but you have managed to discover
seashells in perfect conical shapes
(the ones I searched for in vain at the
real beach when I was your age).
We haven’t even made it to the car
(as usual, your lunch lies abandoned
on the table, limp, unwanted)
and you have entered the imaginary
world that has followed you with penne pasta,
fingers, barrettes, sticks, even earrings
everywhere you go, creating characters
with each shell, telling stories with
frightened-fairy tale plots, holding
complex conversations from snippets
of adult talk that you have captured.
You are immune to the outside world,
to the goings on of swimming or interacting
with your sisters, and have given in to
the world where you imagine yourself to be.
Riona
Nothing can thrill you more than the simplest
pleasures (the tiniest pieces of the bigger picture
that we, emptying our wallets, want to offer you).
Here we stand in the intolerable heat
of a midsummer southern day, and I cannot
snap enough pictures of the grin that exudes
happiness in its purest, rawest form, lighting
up your entire face brighter than the glaring
sun that beats down its midday punishment.
In your hands is the infant rabbit, fur as soft
as the skin on your new cousin’s cheek, that
causes you to abandon interest in all other animals
(doves that coo, clucking chickens,
miniature goats begging for food, ponies
with lofty lips who placidly pick feed from puny palms).
The genuinely gentle creature you hold in your arms,
pulling its nose to your chin, clutching it as if
it is your own child, perfectly encompasses
all that it is (everything you are) that I love about you.
Once, when the first was born,
every small smile, every night
of endless crying, brought weepiness
to my eyes and yearning to my
new-mother heart, and I thought there’d
be a time (a time for me, for us without them)
when things would be easier.
Now (and every day since that first birth,
those first strenuous and anxious nights)
I know better. The new-mother yearning
transforms into seasoned-mother longing
and I wish I could snatch back those
moments that I once wished would end,
trap them inside these ever-harder moments
of sibling battles, school-aged woes, and
still-sad-to-see-them-grow goodbyes.
Once, when the first came into the world,
every moment led to a new surprise, a
new milestone, a delighted set of new
parents and grandparents. Now, when
everything is old hat and three lives have
filled our own lives with their love, I know
that things will never be easier, that
every small smile, every night of endless
worrying, leads to a new level of longing.
One blog post to write with
Two sleepy-with-summer eyes for
Three sleeping soundly little girls who’ll have
Four days with me in the upcoming fortnight, though
Five days would make us all a bit happier, especially with
Six over-mountains hours separating us, though we can make it
Seven lonesome (for me) days until we meet again, especially with
Eight personally-picked items in each (never do this) gift bag for at least
Nine hours of enjoyment (I’m hoping for more), my heart will crack right at
Ten in the morning as they buckle in and take off, my loves with my lover for
Eleven time-with-extended-family, miss-them-already, counting-down-the-days.
with endless shade
to cover our car
and block the roaring
heat from ruining our picnic,
a friendly breeze to
tickle our skin as we
dash like flitting barn swallows
in and out of the
water whose shallow edge
feels like hot springs
on our multi-sized feet,
three bright-as-light life jackets
and a brand-new floatie
(on which we take turns,
carry the baby like she’s in
a bath, and hang from
like patient puppies next to mama),
we have concluded yet another
perfect Kentucky summer day.
how is it that the
technology to make our
lives easy isn’t?
why do little girls
scream when babies are trying
to take a short nap?
how red can the sun
shine, first in the morning light
then sending me home?
Blue is a lonely
soul who’s camera shy with soft
brown dog loving eyes.
how many cat calls
will i hear in Kentucky,
land of bikeless broads?
how could a movie made for children
bring tears to my eyes
and leave a mark of sadness on my heart
for the remainder of the day?
because I’m a mother,
and what I see in this film
is the coming end of
the three girls sitting beside me,
now in booster seats,
whispering, “Is there more popcorn?”
and rocking the seats
annoyingly as all small children do,
and the day when
they too will pack their most
sacred toys in boxes,
ship them off to a storage room
or some new little girl’s house,
stuff their cars,
and drive away to college.
and before i can even blink,
all i will have left of this day,
of any other day that i have with them,
will be a memory.
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