biking

The Brownie List

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packing my morning bag
clothes and lunch
keys and phone
extra gloves and socks
i remember the brownies
that last night
didn’t once cross my mind to make.

the coveted brownie list
will be empty today
though i know no words
no emails
will vehemently send requests.

i will know
they will know
but they will never see
the catatonic way i came home
kids playing outside
me? unable to move from the couch
to even think
about a bit of sweetness
that now i so crave for the tip of my tongue.

Four Flags

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my day is determined
by four flags
whipping a wayward wind
toward the horizon
or reluctantly at rest
like limp rags,
their staunch appearance
a reminder of resistance.

i pedal past,
search for meaning.
will they tell me how my day will be?
in order,
in darkness
they loom before me,
first at the sin shop
lined with gluttonous cars,
then two in a row
miles down the road,
spotlighted in glory
on the hilltop of wealth,
and at last at the great institution,
lit up by a just-rising sun
awaiting my timed arrival.

they tell me if i’m crazy
(yes! the wind is your enemy today!)
remind me of my strength
(you made it! half a mile to go!)
predict my future
(it’s a long road ahead!)

but
there are no words
there is no wind
i have no muscles
that can swallow
all the hidden pain
that those wind-whipped flags
endure in their threadbare stance
as they tell me the truth in
the only way my heart will hear it.

Taste

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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.

My Dear

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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??

Ode to Wind

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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.

Purple

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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.

Sparkling

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my morning begins
delving into darkness.
just far enough to reach
every constellation,
city lights sparkling,
a gold-threaded quilt
thrown upon the plains,
shadowy hills holding
spotlighted pavement

my day ends
bathed in light.
wind whipping my tires home,
sun splashing its mockery
of rainless spring clouds,
glistening snow-capped peaks
gathering sparkling skyscrapers
in a picture frame of beauty,
sunlit pavement.

for you
the darkness dissipates,
melts into the sparkling spirit
of a new day.

Wings

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i’m sorry to say
you’ve paid your dues
in pavement meanderings,
spills on concrete,
thousands of miles
up and down hills.

now you will hang,
a bat in the close-lidded garage
waiting for the day
when i might strap on a pack
and pedal you into the sunset.

i have wings now,
feather-light
glow-in-the-dark
smooth-as-weathered-stone wings
that will fly
fly
fly me
farther than you could ever take me.

Icicles

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fog creeps in
beckoning spring
with an absent snowfall
frost on the branches
we wait
i wait
new bicycle shining
under the flash
never yet on pavement
one thousand
rooftops mimic mountains
i cannot see
he tells me by 2050
too many people will live here
to sustain life
and why am i having another child
vanilla caramel cream porter
mixed with dates that match up exactly
eleven
twenty-two
eighty-nine years
my grandmother enters
and leaves this life.

it is monday
only monday
the week is fresh
new like the snow
that will creep in on cats’ paws
as we sleep
and i wonder
if my girls
who met her once
will brave the cold
the cold, the cold
and bury the seed
that brought them into this world
the seed from last century
the person who they will never know
whose words ring
like icicles on snow
we wait for all night.

Beauty

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beauty is measured in miles
time spent spinning tires
shifting gears and minds
muscles as tight as ropes

beauty is the gift i give today
the long-awaited gift of newness
the measurement of all the miles
behind me, all the miles i’ve yet to pedal.