what the camera couldn’t capture:
the red circle of sun just after dawn
rising above the soldiers of the night
the road with fewer than two hands’
worth of cars zipping past me
Riona proclaiming, “It wasn’t me”
though no one else is around
the creek bed lush with shadow
and peace on this early morning ride
the heat that seeps from all corners
of the earth, emanating into our souls
the birdlike chirps of three little girls
as they open their cards from Grandma
the tender bite of medium rare steak
for a special dinner for the five of us
the rare afternoon nap under the fan
of the climate-controlled house
the white half circle of moon just after dusk,
rising above the guardians of the day.
biking
My New Kentucky Home
This isn’t what I expected.
I imagined intolerable heat
(and it can be)
flat, muggified air
(sometimes it is)
and having to drive 55 miles
to get anywhere decent
(sometimes i just ride the bike instead).
Yes, it is what I expected.
But I didn’t know about
the rolling country roads
(an endless bike trail),
the diversified forests with
trees as gigantic as the
skyscrapers I’m accustomed to,
rivers and lakes and streams
around every corner that bear
bath-warm water to swim in
morning, noon, and night,
bridges that span the lakes,
rivers, and streams in a
magnificent rainbow of
mile-long architectural beauty,
state parks that have no entrance
fees, free hot working showers,
even swimming pools, hotels,
and golf courses, with grounds
maintained as impeccably as
upscale resorts, humidity that
allows me to breathe easier,
pedal faster, and keep my
contacts in all day long,
and
love for my new Kentucky home.
Recipe for Risk
1 bike
1 narrow bridge
1 mile-wide lake
1 dose of fear for your life
2 speeding cars (instead of 20)
3 shots of adrenaline
4 cups of determination
1. Take a picture beforehand so you’ll have documentation.
2. Wait for your moment. The shoulder of the road before the bridge will help you build up your fear.
3. Mix the determination and adrenaline in a hot-as-blood concoction and hit the pavement with your tires.
4. Forget about the forty miles behind you. Focus on the beautiful lake, the white line, and the bout-to-burst heart to get you to the center of the bridge.
5. Let the cars zoom past and try to ignore the semi coming from the other direction. If you pedal with the risk of your life in your heart, you’ll make it before he does.
6. Take a picture from the other side for documentation. You might need it to remember this moment. Or, you might not. Either way, it’s a beautiful bridge.
Call the Landlord and Pray
How to cope with a broken water heater
in a house with eight sweaty people:
one—swim in the backyard blowup pool
two—wash laundry in cold water
three—debate about the causes
four—boil water on the stove
five—ride your bike in 90/90
(degrees/humidity) for fifteen miles
and enjoy the sluice of ice cold water
that will wash away all your frustration
with the sweat that swirls down the drain.
Six—call the landlord and pray
(we are in Kentucky after all).
Writing (Riding)
the sun is writing on my back
with an early morning marker
(yellow-orange, scented like
moist soil and ripened pollen)
and i am writing on my bike
as I take hill after sloping hill
under my tires, the curves beckoning
me to the end of the road.
there she waits, a giant sloth of
spring-muddy water creeping
toward the gulf, either side lush
with full-leafed hardwoods.
i wait for them here, moisture
writing on my back, as i relive
the momentous views, the perfect
ride that I never thought could be here.
the sun is higher now, writing across
the sky its midday mark of southern heat,
and they pop out of the car with hugs,
smiles that we will ride into the night.
Hugging the White Line
on the road she told me not to take
i hug the white line
in a race against the sunset,
not used to the countryside
with its erratic traffic,
endless cornfields dotted
with day lilies as red-orange
as the sun behind me,
hills that curve and roll into
each other like waves of
rural nonchalance, and its
dangerous lack of streetlights.
with tunes popped in and
the golden glow of a busy day’s end
pushing me home, i beat
my average speed, sweat
dripping down me with as many
torrents as the rainfall that
left me drenched yesterday,
and I come into town, settle the
bike into place on the porch,
grinning at the silence of the
usually-loud streetlight across
the street, still dark in these last
few moments of light, basking in
these last few moments of the race I’ve won.
The Vittetoe Express
It’s June first (my mother’s birthday)
ninety degrees with a slight breeze
that makes this uphill ride tolerable,
and as I pedal along I catch sight of
our illustrious three-tiered shadow.
First me, silver helmet casting sparkles
against the cracked black pavement,
then Mythili on the tag-along, her frilly
dress flowing behind her seat like a
butterfly waiting to escape the heat,
and then the round caboose of the trailer
with Riona singing Christmas songs as I
shout, “Pedal!” when we come to the
bottom of another glorious hill.
Before we’ve even made it to the park
(the one with two playgrounds, a creek
where Elizabeth fetched the girls’ pollywogs,
a Frisbee golf course and exercise equipment),
we have turned every driver and pedestrian
with gaping rubbernecks bent in our direction, and
I have thought of a name for this silhouette of
bikes daisy-chained to one another in harmony:
The Vittetoe Express, a perfect train of thought,
a perfect train of happiness on this
perfect Kentucky summer day.
Trail of Glory
All it takes is one pic
Twenty minutes on their blog
And I’m sold
For ten grand we could
Buy that bike
Load up our trailer
And pedal into the
Vacation of my dreams.
You (and everyone else)
Would say we’re as crazy
As Icarus flying his chariot
Too close to the sun.
But I will always know
(we will always know)
That before the wax melted,
He burned a trail of glory
(we’ll burn a trail of glory)
That all of us can see behind us
For the remainder of our lives.
Ode to Colorado
Only here will I worry
about traffic jams along the bike path,
runners and bikers decked out
in garishly bright bodysuits
speeding double file
in a race to beat their average
so early on a Saturday morning
Only here will the wind whip up
a thunderstorm that creeps in from
the mountains every afternoon,
sneaking out after torrents
that the dry steppe soaks up
with its thirst for rain
so early in the year’s seasons.
Only here will fourteen miles
vary from century-old Victorians,
to modern multiplexes,
to simple suburban trilevels
tucked amongst the creek that
brought us all here, that connects us
so early in the life of Colorado.
Only here will I raise my girls,
stake my claim, teach my kids
that the beauty surrounding us all
lies within the pedals, the pounding feet,
the mountains bearing weather,
the creek bearing gold, the architecture
that keeps us here, brings us here,
so early in the life of our love.
May Daughters
Mythili
With pride, you grin to show
your mouth with its bloody hole
(your first lost tooth),
palming the remnant of an apple
that you tuck behind your back
like a puppy hiding her tail
“That’s great. Where’s the tooth?”
Bewilderment clouds your smile.
“I swallowed it.”
“That’s too bad,” I try empathy,
but it has broken through your doubt,
and giant droplets of loss
form at the corners of your eyes.
We make a mad-dashed search for Blankey,
and soon you are in my lap,
cuddling your tears away
as if you were still my toddler,
not the soon-to-be-kindergartener
who has just reached another milestone.
Isabella
One evening of defiance
(its pursuing punishment causing
a head-thrusting tantrum into your pillow)
has led us to the deal we make today:
show me you can behave
and I will grant your wish.
Bribery is the secret that every parent keeps,
and you are mostly silent in the trailer
of our long bike ride,
asking only three questions
along the 41-mile route:
“Are we lost?”
“Are we almost there?”
“Can we stop at the playground?”
You follow along the Girl Scout activities,
budding in line and asking questions,
only twice intertwining your hand with your friend’s
to identify shapes in clouds, to dance,
and when the long day comes to and end,
I pull you into my arms,
whisper what you want to hear,
in three words forgiving us both.
Riona
Though the time is short,
you insist on helping make dinner rolls.
You and Mythili fight over
stirring the flour,
patting the dough,
and who gets to sit on the counter.
I’m as flustered as a
bird with broken wings,
hopping about around you
and trying to get the job done.
“I wish we had a kitchen with an island
so you girls could be on the other side.”
Your response is so simple.
“I wish we had a ping pong room in the
basement, but first we need a bigger basement.”
And just like that,
I have forgotten about my broken wings,
my flustered flurry.
I hand you the dough
that you round into a ball too small
and smile, my frenzy tucked
quietly behind me.
Step Write Up 