you are
the opening and closing
of perfect flower petals
dripping with dew,
scenting the air
with honeyed moisture,
enticing the morning sun
with bursts of brilliance.
your sweet taste
lingers in my mouth
even as before-dawn wind
in its darkest journey
before the sun
tries to steal you
from my tongue.
we could build a garden.
you plant the seeds,
i’ll sprinkle bits of water.
together we’ll pull weeds,
we’ll break our backs
under hot summer sun.
we’ll stomp through rainshowers
to check on our sprouts.
we’ll set up bean trees
and underground hoses.
beauty will burst at harvest.
leaves will take over soil.
juicy vegetables will glisten
and drip down our chins,
and we can stand back
admiring our toil,
so proud that we took the time
to listen, work, wait,
to see what could come from the earth,
from each other’s souls.
don’t hold her back
my sister tells me
knowing how her spirit was crushed
and i am twisted between
what i think is right
what i know is wrong
wondering where the manual is
knowing there isn’t one.
just like the quilt
i cross-stitched over my pregnant belly
the words
A Star is Born
she leads them on limitless adventures
hours of imaginative play
shining so brightly
that nothing i say or do
could possibly quench the light.
i just can’t be
the mother i was taught to be
and though her vibrancy
twists at strings of guilt within me
it is me
and i will have to love her
for the child she is,
the child i was never able to be.
how does she know
that the smile
the chuckle
subliminal at best
was for the odd couple
dark skinned and light
pointing and talking
outside of our van
their gracious words
intermingled with
heavy traffic?
she speaks
as an observer of the outside world
almost as if she is not a part of it
as if she knows more
than she should
she knows more than she should
just as at birth
two days old
she opened her eyes
and turned her head towards me
when i walked into the room.
she is impossible to define.
i never will.
middle child?
magical child.
if i could take those peaks,
the rays of sunlight streaming,
snatch them up from my desktop pic,
from the hands that formed them
if i could have the magical hands
that shaped this imperfect world
then perhaps i could put in perspective
the shame that hovers darker than clouds,
blocks those rays from reaching my heart.
but i can’t. i’m not God, nor have the magic
that you so desire, that seeps out of her eyes
with remorse for my harsh words, her unveiling,
that sends you to bed with night two of anguish.
if i could take those peaks,
those rays of sunlight in my hands,
i would wash our sins with the elevated air,
reshape who you are in my eyes,
release the shame from both of our souls.
i wish i could move my fingers
across the banjo with
the flair
the spin
the genius
the beautiful British accent
the perfection
the speed
but i can’t.
i can only spin these tires
new shoes clipped in
and ride until my breath escapes me
and try to remember
what i’m good at
which isn’t much,
being the mother of
that student,
the talk-about-in-teachers’-lounge
grumble-about-apathetic-parents
wish-you-didn’t-have-in-your-class
student
at least i can pretend to sing
like Mumford & Sons
and admit
I REALLY FUCKED IT UP THIS TIME,
DIDN’T I, MY DEAR??
Riona
i will not forget these moments:
your tea party picnic
Charlotte and all
plastic food eaten
and regurgitated for later.
your thrill at holding the yoke
carrying buckets of water from well
being four and a half years
full of smiles.
your dances/songs
where you spin on sticky bare feet
and intertwine your love for me
with utterances of sisterly annoyances.
your hands held defiantly high
when they try to mock you:
I AM ONLY FOUR
in beauteous indignation.
Mythili
you’ve been duped.
i couldn’t tell you
couldn’t find the words
for me taking a day off
driving you to the dentist
forcing you to sit in the chair.
you sit silent as a stone
as the laughing gas
is put like clown’s nose
into your lungs.
they say how good you are
again and again.
he cuts into your gums
and i watch as your fists clench,
but not a tear streaks down,
not a grumble or whine.
we move to the car,
plastic jewelry prizes in hand.
i buckle you in
and you shoot me the
you tricked me look.
we arrive home
to a fridge full of
pudding, jello, ice cream.
you remember you are six
(not all grown up)
and break into a jubilant smile.
Isabella
you won’t listen
but you’ll direct.
Pull the tails off like this.
I’ll hold my fingers. You count.
Find the letter M.
Twist the bottom of the toothbrush.
like a monkey you climb
onto the counter
scavenging for spoons
plates
glassware
assigning seats at the table
with the air of a hostess
i remember when
the other babies were here.
you couldn’t walk,
but you climbed right into
the patio chair
giggling like a gorilla
posing proudly
at your accomplishments,
confident then,
leader now.
you can take my breath away
and keep me pedaling in your sway
but i’m not the kind who would give in
to a kick-the-butt, taunting wind.
you should know your metaphor
opening and closing every door
but really for me it’s just a ride
no matter how you try to skin my hide.
i will say that you tried your best
to strip me down and make me rest
but you’ve forgotten how strong i am
how rigorous i set my training program.
you’ll never know the miles i track
how hard i work to fight you back
how i tell myself that if i can beat you
that mountaintop will be mine to chew.
we move through Sunday
finishing written work
reading words from foreigners
disappearing into imaginary worlds.
we step into the reality
of controlled chaos,
endlessly flashing lights,
banging balls, screaming children.
birthday party aside, we slip into nature,
our shoes sliding across dirt
that tickles the wind with views
of waterfowl-filled wetlands.
this isn’t the church he grew up with
(the one i never knew)
but with fingers interlaced
we can still see the true beauty of God.
my fingers will be purple
the hills
roller-coaster-like
will come to an end
the breath escaping
in shadowy wisps
of early morning
will see the darkness fall
the sun rise
and this ride
will bring me
to one hundred twenty-five
in five days flat
i will remember
the cold
the stopping
the book ending
the music beginning
the day i won’t even miss
the frenectomy
the playground
the friend’s new baby
three girls vacuuming
sweeping
wiping glass
but the memory
will be in the purple skin
the fingers that made it
not the tight thighs
not the spinning tires
the fingers that made it through the cold
into the day
that begins like no other day.
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