beliefs

Letters of Idealism

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i see the sky saving sprinkles
for after my ride home,
and tears are close
to making my face fill with moisture,
not because i’m afraid,
but because the mountains,
so far, so close?
they’re touched by the clouds
i can’t quite touch,
their gray-blue beauty
my reason for loving it here

i read two letters today.
one from Frederick Douglass
to his former master,
one from a substitute teacher
to my principal.

the first? a slur of
nineteenth-century idealism
intermingled with self education,
shared amongst
twenty-first century students
whose idealism reads
in between the lines of hatred
that bleed through generations

the second? a slew of
twenty-first century truths
about our shattered system
and the bright light
that shines through
in my second home, my school,
the place where i know
the idealism can break
the mold of those same clouds
that bring beauty,
that save me from rain

One

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no one has called me that name in years.
i mix it with yesterday’s late-night confessions,
the pain that seeps beyond the Holocaust
through the Word Shaker’s mouth,
and the simplest thank you
that is worth to me a million
(dollars i can do without)

there is no irony in the song
that popped up first on my playlist
one
moment that i took to pick up a flyer,
to choose a school,
(i’m familiar with these small decisions)
to go to that meeting,
to start a troop,
to be here in this moment
more than the last.
one
day more than i had before
one
chance to be
the person i am meant to be

i find it all here.
i find you all here–
peppered streams of light
flickering in and out
of the history of me,
everything coming together
to make
one

I Am Always Amazed

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i could hear the howling
i had my gym bag packed
i longed for climate control
(i longed for you more)

throw passion to the wind
they always say that
because they’re not driving
into a twenty-mph-headwind
or feeling it edge along
our backs, our tires
as we ride uphill
faster than the opposite side
pushes down

it’s always those curves along the dam
trying to tell us we can’t make it–
they don’t know us very well, do they?
how i ache to reach the end
where i will have full view of the lake,
where you will take me down
the curvacious path
and rebuild the quads
that have longed for you all winter

i am always amazed
i am always amazed
by how connected i feel
(alone on you)
to the world around me,
how i see the water
and in it my grandmother’s love
for looking at the water,
(insert tears here)
how the right song always comes on
(“Sky Blue and Black” this morning)
how all my stress
slips into the howling wind
as i race for a better time,
how i love,
love,
love you

Across the Ice

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i don’t fit in here,
this suburban-sports-mom place–
ice skates and hockey pucks,
wealth dripping from
concession-stand ketchup
onto Gucci bags,
iPhones snapping
pictures of perfection
(pictures i will never take)

she wants to be a part of it all,
not for one second
jaded by the disorganization,
the preferred treatment of boys,
the simplicity of the lesson
she’s too skilled for and
that costs as much as i make in a day

i want to give it to her
and take her home
all in the same moment,
to tell her she won’t lose her childhood
if she spends her afternoons
playing in the cul-de-sac
with the homeschooled,
underexposed neighbors

but her eyes?
her weeks of anticipation?
i can’t take back this gift,
this inherent joy
that will carry her across the ice
and into her miniature version
of the dream
we all have inside ourselves

Nothing Short of Art

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we sit in central citified sun
sipping smoothies and lattes,
munching on freshly baked croissants
and chatting with strangers
on a day so warm it can’t be
the third week of January
(a beauty we all share
as we peel off our winter coats)

they skip alongside on an impromptu adventure,
moving along the zero street,
playing pig and picking out dates
on ovular stamps in concrete.

we enter the train store
and examine the pure wonder
of details so tiny, humans
standing knee-deep in plexiglass water,
monkeys climbing up a fallen-apart billboard,
and fast-moving trains. one declares,
it is nothing short of art

later i pedal into the wind
around the dam and up the hill
until i see the circular beauty of the lake,
and its curvacious path
interweaves me with a hundred pairs of legs,
all taking advantage
of this day like no other

before i am home
i am home,
and can almost forget
the tears whose all night sting
kept my eyes bleeding till morning,
the two dark, cold miles of separation,
and the hollowness of our words
that find their way
into the poems he wishes i wouldn’t write.

Leftover Remnants of Gratitude

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they are back:
our table engulfs
the full-bodied laughter
whose absence has lingered
like an invisible spirit

now i smile,
my heart full,
my tear-stained,
panic-pedaled drive
to the airport
all but forgotten

their words creep across
the bottle of wine,
the stuffing, turkey,
leftover remnants of gratitude,
and rest inside me.

i have ached all day,
all the long weekend,
for the vitality
i never knew existed
until they stepped off the plane
in their Abercrombie
and winter boots (in July),
blonde and dark,
a perfect mixture of beauty.

if only their exuberance
could fill all the empty places
in the lives that surround me,
the sadness that seeps into our souls
(is this an American epidemic?),
that keeps us from living the lives
we were promised we could live.

we all need to switch pajamas,
race down the hallway of the hotel,
trip and rug-burn our palms,
and head drunkenly towards the sex shop.
when we come home?
we will laugh until we cry,
we will remember that we can
live the lives we were promised to live.

Estamos Bien

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mañana tenemos el
Acción de Día de Gracias tercera

he stands in an airport
with laughter at the back of his voice,
the emotion so close to tears
that they sit waiting
on the edges of my lids

estamos bien.
tenemos una avión mañana por la mañana

because we are all well
with them in our midst–
so un-American to be grateful
for a night longer,
a missed flight,
a smile that we’ve all tucked away
inside ourselves
(that he fishes out
as easily as catching
tadpoles on a hot June day)

Thanksgiving dos,
we sit and share thanks:
one of the four girls
mentions her extra parents
(the highlight of the evening)

i bring forth my Spaniards
(absent)
but with an ever-present influence
on every thought i have,
on every emotion that has crossed my heart
in the four short months
that i have made them mine

Isabella gives me the look
as if i could forget
the reason we are all gathered,
for without these four girls,
none of this happiness
could float in the room
carrying the
feliz día de los padres
mylar balloon
up to the ceiling,
zhuzhu pet attached,
miracle in place
(can you see it?)

and the Spaniards?
they would live somewhere else,
and our surrealistic vision
of tomorrow
would be so.
real.
so.
unimaginative.

instead?
i hear him laugh
about fumando el toro,
the night in the airport
and our third,
and final,
Thanksgiving meal.

The Sun of this Sunday

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they take bottles of clear liquid
wipe the sinks, mirrors, toilets
while we toil with decluttering
and four levels of vacuuming
all before eleven when we
snap ourselves into the tiny car
and drive along sun-streamed streets,
the leaves dancing before us,
letting loose green and gold shade.
we stop and walk to the apple stand
and buy small imperfects
that their hands grasp, juice dripping
before we’ve even ordered souvlaki gyros
to sit on the bench in the shade
and eat with Greek lemon-chicken soup
(i’ll never remember the name).
they skip back to the car
a menagerie of dresses and pants,
and trick-or-treat street awaits
as they measure their steps on the map
sucking in the sun of this Sunday.
we move on to the store that started it all,
the giant scoops of homemade dreams
melting along the sides of the cones
and as we buy our drinks for another day
we move to the library, their singsong voices
unable to contain their excitement over books.
we stop for gas, pack tomorrow’s clothes, lunch,
and evening seeps in to the autumn afternoon
they sit down to veggie sliders
and question our music
and ride their bikes into the night
and remind me
again
again
again
how simply perfect life can be.

Specters

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we are specters zipping along
this curvacious path,
our beams reaching for morning,
longing for night.

before i can blink
our tires zip by.
you are gone from
my limited view.

i will remember the
moon-touched path,
its snakelike guidance along
the grassland’s edge.

but i will never remember
your face unseen,
my morning specter,
my divergent shadow

September (2011) Daughters

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Mythili

you are still my little girl
though you try to pop out
adult (somewhat crooked) teeth
and blend Spanish and English
easily into your imaginary life

among friends you are a leader
(no tag-along little sister role)
and you wait
so anxiously wait
until you are big enough to ride
Isabella’s bike,
to read Isabella’s stories,
to find the right way to
wake up on early school mornings

in our troop,
you are Magical Mythili,
the perfect name
for the creative artist
born from the
destined-to-be-crone
little baby whose head
turned to see me walk
into the room
forty-eight hours
after birth.

Isabella

all of a sudden
you have decided
that you’re a reader

it is a simple statement,
one you would wash off your back
like the layers of shampoo
you push aside

but to me
watching you read
Laura Ingalls Wilder
just like i used to

it means more than
the thousands of words
filling your brain,
making you mine

Riona

every day a new song
a new dance
a new Spanish phrase
a new smile
from my newly school-aged girl

i was worried.
you know that
or you don’t.
you’re small.
tire easily.
timid.
dependent.

oh so calm and pleasant
the perfect student
who hugs goodbye
a friend
whose name you won’t mention
who shies away from
the video of your
performance at the assembly
who is everything
and more
than i could ever
ask you to be.