the wind tries to
dominate our day
but we pedal anyway
the wind beats up
giant clouds of dust
(to the pumpkin fest or bust)
the wind reaches out
to grab them from the air
but pumpkin launchers couldn’t care
the wind helps us
with a tailwind home
kicking up leaves wherever we roam.
how strange it is to hear them
in the back seat of our car,
though they belong to us.
wasn’t it only a moment ago
that he and i drove down this road
and stopped at Village Inn for pie,
a Friday night with nowhere to go,
nothing to do, no responsibilities?
they chirp their wonderings like baby birds,
but they are no longer babies
as they sing in Spanish the
possibilities of what color
Doctor Dino, the preschool
take-home toy, will be next year, as he
has changed from blue to red to green
in the hands of oldest, middle, youngest.
Denver, too, has changed since i first,
at age eleven, took a bus across town
with my friend, eating lunch in
the Tabor Center and pretending to shop.
now the light rail has taken us here,
to a Convention Center that didn’t exist
amongst fancy four-star hotels built up
like mocking gods in the face of recession.
he and i, we are not the same either.
there will be no stop at Village Inn,
no pie. instead we listen:
“Va ser… ¡rojo! ¡rosario! ¡amarillo! ¡azul!”
and i think, we’ll never know the color.
our baby will be out of preschool, Doctor Dino
will be in some other little girl’s home,
and these streets? they’ll never stay the same.
Calling down the stairs
as if reciting their favorite tale,
our three little bears shout out,
their words falling one step after another,
“I have no pajamas in my drawer!”
“The pajamas in my drawer are too hot!”
“My pajama drawer is broken!”
And despite the crying over silly bands,
the arguing over vegetables,
the quarreling over favorite plates,
we have a good laugh
and remember, remember
why we are parents.
it started with innocence
plastered on little girls’ faces
like war paint,
pink, blue, ready for battle.
after a long drive,
a stop at the store,
and a mile up the mountain,
after sifting through
golden remnants of fall
and finding treasures
in sticks, under rocks,
the war paint began to smear.
dripping down into the vessels
of their wrinkle-less cheeks,
the pink, the blue, the blood
awakened them to a new reality.
(i want to take my brush,
soft as silk on their skin,
dip it back into the bucket
and paint them, my young,
until they are blinded from
the horrors of everyday war)
but it is too late. for it
dripped and seeped and slithered
into their eyesmouthporeshearts
as they sat awestruck in
the back seat my (motherly) hands
pushed them into.
as their lips wrapped themselves
around their Sausalito saltwater taffy
(blue and pink, like war paint,
a gift brought home, home)
they took in the scene, faces
in the window, knees on the seat,
all innocence wiped away.
shattered glass. hushed crowd.
distant (gapingly absent) sirens.
blue and red blinking lights.
knees on the pavement.
blood on the pavement.
bodies on the pavement.
it ended with…
a long drive,
a stop at the store,
and sticky faces and hands,
war paint, pink, blue,
faded from their first battle.
it is her first invite
(i wish it was her last)
and we sit in awkward silence
exchanging knowing looks
we’re surrounded by excess fat
skimmed off meat
once set aside just for the rich that has
oozed into our barely-middle class neighborhood
in gluttonous globs it surrounds
even the youngest rosy cheeks,
tripping and slipping their every step
as they unwrap, unwrap, unravel.
by coming here today, we are guilty,
and though our portion size is smaller,
it sits at the edge of the heaped-to-ceiling plate,
torn to bits in minutes by a ferocious four-year-old.
we take our leftovers in six baggies home,
but they are not for the dog. they are for us,
our girls, to chew on all evening, to try and
fill the growling hole in our gut-wrenched stomachs.
autumn visited
for a few wind-chilly hours
today summer’s here.
a ride across town
with a strong daughter attached
is like a new day.
three banjos, a drum
and voices singing kids’ songs
make Sunday perfect.
bike jerseys aren’t cheap,
so it’s a good thing I’m small
and fit a child’s size.
your question is lost
but we can find an answer
if we look deeper.
these boys like their meat
as much as Isabella
ate super porridge.
Riona’s face grins
in my palm like an angel
wrapped up with love.
no one can mess with
Mythili, who already
knows all the books’ words.
we could walk
but we prefer to ride
they hop in
with three pennies,
jubilant voices,
and a mission.
we arrive at the
perfectly painted plastic horse
covered in vinyl saddle
where they climb up and down
riding like pro cowgirls
when five minutes have passed
they head for the cookie aisle
where disappointment sits
plainly on the empty tray.
instead, we pack on our helmets
to continue our weekday adventure,
the wind blowing allergen-ridden dust,
remnants of summer’s sun
beating down on our backs.
i follow the oldest, who
weaves like a drunk driver
through the sidewalk,
into the street,
everywhere her heart takes her.
a giant, loud-mouthed dog
greets our arrival. we reach
with skinny arms into
the abundantly fat-with-fruit trees,
pulling down ripe green pears,
apples with red dimples.
the dog continues to carry on,
and just as i wonder if he’s here
as a warning for us to leave,
a woman’s voice calls over the fence,
“Take as many as you can.”
And we do, the tangy juice
of tiny homegrown fruits
sliding down the girls’ chins,
dripping into the pile at the bottom
of the trailer, sweetening
our end-of-summer afternoon,
sweetening our time here, now.
everything included:
the bikes,
the horse,
the absent cookie,
the fruit,
for three pennies,
jubilant children,
and a mission.
how nice
as fall closes in
that we sit here with our dinner
(one last time?)
and listen
as the wind whistles
through our getting-taller trees
and the girls dive on and off
their matching swings
and the dry air tickles
our perfect-temp skin
and we can be, just be,
the perfect family.
caked in dirt as thick as frosting,
dripping in young-blooded sweat,
hand-carved spears cutting the air,
savage screams of hungry hunters,
sparkling laughter thrown into the wind,
they emerge from the forested fort.
not once in forty-eight hours
have iPodiPadMacBookCellPhone
inundated their young blood
(nor our old blood)
and without a single complaint,
we gather them together so
caked in sticky white clouds of s’mores,
campfire-smoke-ridden clothing and skin,
hot metal spears cutting into the ash,
thrilled screams of sugar highs,
sparkling laughter thrown into the stars,
they emerge from the perfect weekend.
it’s the witching hour
and here, all across town,
evils have worked their way into
the darkness engulfing us.
as quiet as a kitten snuffling
against the door, she whispers
that she is sick,
that she needs help.
with ginger hands we strip
off her sodden clothes,
and i run a washcloth under
water so hot it might sting her.
up and down her small body
i wipe away the illness, then
slip the clean nightgown over
her head in one anxious movement.
the new (old) bed in the green room awaits.
she crawls in and i whisper,
Do you want me to lie here with you?
she whimpers and nods, words lost.
i ask her to move over a bit,
but before i have slid in beside her,
she has inched her body wholly
against mine, her fingers on my face.
When you were a baby, I say,
the tears already sliding down my cheeks,
we used to share this bed every night,
just you and me, girl.
he comes in, offers to replace me,
but he can see the tracks down my cheeks,
her tiny fingers on my chin,
and without another word,
leaves us in our bed of sorrow, love.
