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.
i don’t need a fancy gym or P-90x
i just rode thirty miles with the Vittetoe Express
my bike, tag-along, and a trailer daisy chain
may look to others just a little bit insane
but you’re popping out seven hundred a year
i spent eleven on coffee and cheer
when it’s sixty degrees in January
my legs and arms made a workout fairy
yes, it took six hours to visit the zoo
but i still made a deal better than you
i didn’t sacrifice one moment from my girls
and that beats all the muscles from your fancy curls.
i read her
sometimes misconstrued
words
that slap
our media-mocked society
with this
thick piece
of modern literature.
and i wonder
as i look at their faces
shuffling in and out
peaked smiles
defensive responses
invariable isolation
which one of you
i want to ask,
would take this horrid day
this horrid combination of days,
trap them in a bottleneck
until
the
whole
world
explodes?
Isabella
is it an act of defiance
once again, or a child
wanting to be a child,
dashing into the night,
rolling down the hill
until bits of dried grass
stick in your Brownie vest
like petulant pieces of glue,
causing me to shake your shoulders,
my flustered fingers unable to remove
from your almost-eight tangles
the frustration your actions bring?
or is it me, your end-of-day tired mother,
unable to remember those hills
i rolled down as a child,
petulant pieces of green grass
imprinting triangular shapes on my skin,
as i hand over your punishment
on display for your peers to mock,
only to later see the stack of cards
on my nightstand, the supplicant sticky,
“these are the thank-you cards i rote,”
your grammatically correct misspelling
tugging at the mother, the daughter,
we were both meant to be?
Mythili
with two top teeth missing,
you blend into the crowd
of second grade girls
for a weekend of camp.
you are the youngest
of twenty, demurely asking
for help with your pajamas,
with the needle you can’t quite thread,
but singing along with the songs,
joining in on the games,
snowshoeing into the woods
as if your teeth had already sprouted,
as if you had already skipped
over kinder and first grade,
my little one wanting
to be all grown up.
Riona
from the moment of birth
after twenty-four hours
of fighting to emerge,
when you made less than two peeps
and settled in next to my skin
for a peaceful night of nursing,
to the quiet child who follows
Daddy to a job and speaks not a word,
who cuddles silently on the couch
with a fever that you’ll tell no one about,
i truly believe,
my youngest, angelic child,
that you were born
without a single complaint in your soul.
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