choices

A Star is Born

/ lovizmytrio / Leave a comment

don’t hold her back
my sister tells me
knowing how her spirit was crushed
and i am twisted between
what i think is right
what i know is wrong
wondering where the manual is
knowing there isn’t one.

just like the quilt
i cross-stitched over my pregnant belly
the words
A Star is Born
she leads them on limitless adventures
hours of imaginative play
shining so brightly
that nothing i say or do
could possibly quench the light.

i just can’t be
the mother i was taught to be
and though her vibrancy
twists at strings of guilt within me
it is me
and i will have to love her
for the child she is,
the child i was never able to be.

Peaks

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if i could take those peaks,
the rays of sunlight streaming,
snatch them up from my desktop pic,
from the hands that formed them

if i could have the magical hands
that shaped this imperfect world
then perhaps i could put in perspective
the shame that hovers darker than clouds,
blocks those rays from reaching my heart.

but i can’t. i’m not God, nor have the magic
that you so desire, that seeps out of her eyes
with remorse for my harsh words, her unveiling,
that sends you to bed with night two of anguish.

if i could take those peaks,
those rays of sunlight in my hands,
i would wash our sins with the elevated air,
reshape who you are in my eyes,
release the shame from both of our souls.

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.

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.

Ride

/ lovizmytrio / Leave a comment

how could i not see
after nearly ten years
in this house
that a four-mile pedal east
leads right into
cottonwood groves
tucked along creeks,
sweeping plains with hills
that carry me
roller-coaster style
into the wind,
and a view
on my homeward journey
contrasting the starkness
of yellow prairie
against the jagged peaks
that beckon non-natives
to call Colorado home?

how?
because i didn’t strap on
my helmet,
layer on my bike clothes,
and find the time to
chill-the-bones,
burn-the-muscles,
praise-the-beauty
ride.

Me

/ lovizmytrio / 1 Comment

i don’t want to be here.
i’m good at this.
i’ve read enough
to share stories and articles
with my co-teachers,
have taught enough
to take over their lessons on the fly,
remember her words enough
to stand at the front and teach
while simultaneously seeing students
for who they really are,
can move through classrooms
and schedules with
hauntingly smooth ease,
can grade a stack of 150
short constructed responses
before the state test is over
and still take the time
to cry a little when i see
how poor a student’s score will be

but i cannot
i cannot
take the tears out of my four-year-old’s eyes
after the rushed-morning goodbye,
the words i cannot take back,
the days
the months
the years
i cannot take back,
the me
(the mommy me)
who i fear will never be as good
as the me
who walks down these hallways.

Song

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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.

Copy

/ lovizmytrio / Leave a comment

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

Commute

/ lovizmytrio / Leave a comment

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.