the beat is in the background
subtle
wavering
but i can still hear it.
instrumentals move in
twangy
sweet
vocals pounding microphone.
lyrics flow (honey from mouth)
stretched
anticipatory
words that try to hide it.
a breath, a moment without verse
ba-dum
ba-dum
breaking through the song.
i wait for the beat to take over
penetrating
impregnable
for you to hear what i hear.
Dear Phil:
I saw that book you gave me.
Remember?
The best-first-year
beat-up, bedraggled
copy you’d
“given to all your proteges”?
You forgot something.
I wasn’t your protege.
I didn’t need to hear
how Kari won
best-first-year-teacher
the year before
or
how I “might not get
rehired”
if I couldn’t control
period six.
I needed for you
to not be my mother
to not be my father
to not be
the beat-up
bedraggled
copy of criticism
that had followed me
all of my life.
Do you remember?
It was my first year
and one of your last.
At least you can walk away
knowing you
were there for me.
Love,
The Best First Year
cat’s paws on glass
dented side panel
dash lights that haven’t
worked in five years
bits of wrappings
from kids’ endless
candy expenditures
taped-on headlight
zip-tied bumper
broken visor
windshield crack
of spider-ice
locks and windows
you have to open
by hand
broken cup holders
too small for any drink
radio numbers
you can no longer see.
and you dare ask
how i could layer on
thick butt pad
sports-bra undershirt
two long underwear tops
one long underwear bottom
bike capris
two pairs of socks
two sets of gloves
a bandana, hat, scarf
a helmet and headphones
a saddle bag filled with
lunch and work clothes?
oh.
you missed
the silver sliver of moon
the last star of night
the windless morn
Aurora’s pink fingertips
painting the sky
the top of the hill home
where the curving road
presented its framed picture
of the city skyline
distantly mirrored
by snow-capped fourteeners.
i understand.
you would rather be warm.
i would rather have warmth.
yes you have tickets
and you ask permission
as if i have a choice
i clutch the silver plastic
letting the words fall
in between the lines
your tickets were for us
but just as back then
you teach me exchange rates
i wonder what we are worth
or how much you paid for them
does it even matter to you?
could i uproot us all
for the fear that returns
year after year after year
for my sister’s presence
my life our lives their lives
could i uproot us all?
i wonder how much
you would hate me
you would learn to hate me
they would hate me
if i made such a choice.
funny how you mask yourself
for their protection
and i wear the button
proudly on my jacket,
picture-whispering
my beliefs for all to see.
when your thoughts
bubble up out of you
in an eruption of disparity
from the tight-necked clothes
you’ve kept around you,
the lava stings my view
of who i thought you were.
you wait for molten rock
to form as ash settles,
but i am trapped underneath
the red flow from your mantle,
unable to break through the crack
in the crust you chose to expose,
unable to even whisper what i see.
it’s Valentine’s Day
and decked out in red,
heart earrings in place,
ready for my Brownie tea party,
i tuck cookies into mailboxes
and begin my day.
the words on the screen
jump out at me,
ripping all the love
from this ever-loving day
straight from my heart
as i embrace the truth
of what they will miss.
my chili lunch,
my box of chocolate strawberries,
my desire
are left uneaten
as i move through the motions,
counting the minutes
until i am safe to let
everything out in
words
tears
screams
that no one will hear.
but i can’t.
it is not about me
or my mistake
or anyone’s miscommunication.
it is about what is best for them,
and before you even close the door,
i know you will listen.
we sit at the circular table,
each sharing our version
of the empty spaces
that lie before us.
and before the moment
can slip between our fingers,
you help me find the words
i didn’t know i had,
filling our empty spaces,
reminding me why i love it here,
how you listen,
how you lead,
solve problems,
dry the tears
that now creep back into
the corners of my eyes
as i write these words.
because there are no words
to truly describe
the love that is here
in this room, this school,
this place where the students come first,
where you stand tall
and step aside
in the same graceful moment.
the complexity of her desire
lies beneath the wings,
hidden backstage
behind the set
that he has so diligently
worked years to create.
he would surely see it
if it weren’t for the glory
of the spotlight
that draws beads of sweat
upon his brow
and standing ovations
from his familial fans.
instead she waits
for the final bow,
the wilted flowers
with stage-heavy hands
to be placed inside a vase
upon the mantle,
a reminder of the beauty
they once shared.
we had uninvited guests
uninvite themselves back,
an impromptu invitation,
and our simple plans
of pot roast with
potatoes, parsnips, carrots,
mini-quiches and veggie pies,
tortilla chips and salsa,
butterscotch pudding cake
and French vanilla ice cream,
and kids as excited as
tree-swinging monkeys
for the one night of the year
that they can eat dinner
in front of the television.
it’s like a holiday
without the hullabaloo,
and our lack-of-sports
Sunday routine
can be broken
for this one night of the year.
You may work behind the scenes
to gather nectar,
flying about on
twisted bits of spring wind,
buzzing back into the hive
to lay down your sweets,
to relish in the taste
of foreign lands that
you’ve brought back,
to build up a honeycomb
so dripping with stickiness
that you forget your train of flutters.
But allow me to remind you:
I am the queen.
This is MY hive.
And you had better learn your place
before you get trapped
in a honey-drunk euphoria,
my stinger the only bite
you’ll remember when you wake.
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