beliefs

A Sunday Afternoon

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girls pose like little models,
even the baby smiles
underneath the bright flashes
(she’s not a baby anymore–
why must i be reminded
that five years
have slipped into oblivion?)

the clouds move in
on a Sunday afternoon,
a semi-quiet house
where they pretend to pick up
while we lie on the couch
reminiscing the twin bed
we shared so many years ago.

(with money clenched
like fists in pockets,
we borrowed furniture,
walked across ant-biting carpet,
washed dishes by hand,
roasted like oily chicken
in the absence of central air)

is it so different now,
our money spilling out
into the screens of tomorrow,
the cool air tickling our skin
as their tweeting songs
remind us of all we have seen,
all we have yet to see?

Cast Away

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my moon was awake
full and bright
casting my stress
with hands of night

the breeze came out
shunning the heat
on the swing i sat
dangling my feet

my thoughts swirled round
a storm in my head
while my pup rested gently
under covers in bed

if only the screen
could wash away fears
make the work worthwhile
and cast away tears

Closed Eyes

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with closed eyes we see the world
blanketed by senseless screens
absent of real words
imagery we can’t understand

with closed eyes the world sees us
hidden behind doors
lost from human contact
connections we can’t define

with closed eyes we see the world
painted with desire
immersed in ourselves
love we cannot celebrate

Huntsman

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like a hunter in hiding,
you pounce perfectly
as I try to escape

you think you’ve caught me,
but your trap doesn’t dig–
my ankle is free for running

I offer you a portion,
a tiny morsel to munch,
but you are not a master huntsman.

you will only see me
as the prey you trapped too late,
the remainder of the meal left on the table.

Definition

/ lovizmytrio / 2 Comments

it could be the Spanish-English mix
from the nanny’s mouth as we sat in the zoo,
my thoughts of the last day of summer
slipping from my hands
quicker than the tears
my baby cried to sleep with,
or the anger inside
that someone would pay another
for everything i love the most.

it could be the defriending,
his cold absence of words in my presence,
or her emphatic insistence
that eight months is enough
time with her baby
when a thousand years
would not satiate me.

it could be the story i love
coming to a bittersweet end,
or the small voices
absent from my home
on the one day when
i need them most.

but i will never be quite able
to define what haunts me.

Mixer

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i cannot replicate the complex crest
nor mimic la bandera de España.
i cannot be the arms of your mother
or speak coherently her tongue.

i can only pour in the ingredients,
spin the mixer of all we desire,
and place before you in red and yellow
everything your presence means to me.

i cannot say in words what the cake will tell
in so many sweet remembrances,
so many little tastes that sparkle
like the teardrops in the corners of her eyes.

July Daughters (2011)

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Isabella

not a tear or a fear
you smile at adventure
we leave you for four days
and the silence of your absence
is brighter in my mind
than the happy photos
of your smiling face
that they send to us

Riona

words escape you
as you blink back dark eyes
and growing-out bangs,
hiding behind my leg,
your babyhood reemerging

yet

when they are gone
you endlessly request
the words that have filled our hearts
(after moments of hesitation)
they magically conjure from your mouth

Mythili

a pile of donated clothes
sit like humped garbage
on the living room floor

i open bags
sift through worn-out knees
and missing-mate shoes

Oh, I didn’t know new dresses were coming in
your six-year-old crone remarks,
lighting a fire beneath my doubts.

Always an Adventure

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the rain beats down
as we stand in hushed surprise
rush to the endless line of cars
where we wait wait wait
always an adventure

the stars beat down
on a tent without poles
dirt as thick as cream on skins
fires that won’t start
always an adventure

the sun beats down
on a misnavigating device
streets clogged with crowds
underground cracks of hellish heat
always an adventure

my soul beats down
on two jobs, three kids
bills piling like paper mountains
parents who miss what i have:
always an adventure

Unmelted

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i hand her wings
as i read about Icarus
to the two young buds

we open up Google
and relish in Breugel
as she calls to check in

she returns triumphant
waxed wings unmelted
no pledge to Apollo needed.

Twisted Logic

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how can i explain
the twisted logic
she openly verbalizes
as we sift through photos
of smoke and ash?

she will only see (one day)
perfect reflection pools,
beams of light calling to heaven,
beautiful bright buildings
standing like shadows
in place of what was lost.

she will not remember
(or pull back tears as i do),
but look into the world
with the hope that
the twisted logic of those ‘pilots’
is left behind with the rubble
they wrapped in a flag and carried home.