what you don’t see here:
picking rhubarb in the rain
for salvation pie
three-thirty a.m.
my oldest’s footsteps. good steps.
intentional steps.
this is not a moon.
this is a lunar eclipse.
(Super-Flower-Blood)
and she’ll be gone soon.
(no early-morning steps).
and i. am. eclipsed.
shadows of loss win
the afternoon shines bright.
(we still have our moon)
a midnight rainstorm
brought early this raging creek
and stole seed-planting
yet, cycle views burst
with blossoms of spring color
saving the lost day
Just look at the flashing light. Put your feet on the pedals. Focus on the sign that says Colorado. Do not focus on every other thought that has entered your brain this evening. Do not stand staring at your garden, your half-dead peach tree, wishing for a different story.
Because this is your story.
Whatever words were exchanged in that beautiful garden of yours, that hand-weeded, hundreds-of-dollars-of-soil-and-plants garden in the midst of the steppe that is Denver, whatever sprouted from the peony that won’t quite bloom or the poppy you accidentally ripped out or the lupine that isn’t ready yet?
They are not your words.
They are his and hers, and you will never know nor understand.
Will they follow you across this intersection? Will they be at the back of your brain when you run that stop sign in front of the giant F250, thinking, “I dare you” thinking about that Denver Post-Washington Post-Colorado-New-York-Times article about the 47-year-old professional cyclist who got hit by a car and died instantly, thinking, “Now that’s the way to go”?
Will they take back everything you’ve said? Will they flash in front of him in front of you, like this imperfect sunset on the half-dead tree?
Will they tell the truth about the constant brutality of raising teenagers? Why don’t we continue to post graduation pics and scholarship offers and art shows and prom nights and not act like behind every moment is a harsh word, a lack of respect, a total disregard of your humanity?
Did I do everything wrong?
Did I do nothing right?
It’s all in this sunset that I can’t quite capture. In the words that I will never hear. In the betrayal that I will never understand.
It’s in my pedals, in this flashing light, as I stand staring at my garden and thinking, Maybe I should have stuck with plants and pups.
But I can’t even raise a peach tree.
And who’s going to raise me?
my perfect symbol:
trying so hard for peaches
even while dying
she graduates now
my baby girl, all grown up
in this Red Rock Land
we'll never escape
the "boot straps" mentality
or fix these numbers
from prom to vaccine
in a short eight-hour night
(let science save us)
there's no heartbreak here
just my girl, eighteen years old,
ready to face them
sneakers underneath
(pandemic proms are outdoors,
under tents, in grass)
she's taller, braver.
in her silver floor-length gown,
she masters the night
and aren't we a crowd?
this master-mix of humans,
standing on these rocks?
unsinkable us
right below the Molly Brown
(ready to swim. Win.)
this side of the glass
has me trapped like a sad pup
just begging entry
Step Write Up 