as a duo
we were almost perfect,
a few flaws
pecking their way in.
now the triangle
of desire
has jutted into the mix,
expanding our guts
with bits of business
that neither of us
knows how to digest.
choices
Gratitude
here they are,
a pink epiphany
of what we could have been
as you stand curiously
reading my poems.
how funny that you see
and don’t see me
in the same moment.
i mark their papers,
her papers,
in green felt pen.
she will thank me later
with her dry wit,
her handing over of lessons,
her listening to my ideas.
you give me the check
(less than last year)
and wobble your hips,
your smile plastered on lips.
i nod,
my own lips (for once) sealed.
because everything,
the papers,
the poems on the counter,
the music you and i both love
playing quietly on the computer,
you in your room,
i in theirs,
everything is in its place,
and there are no words
that can describe my gratitude
as you pass through the door.
Inheritance
it is true what i say:
i have no idea who you are
or why he married you
or why it is that
you put your hands on her
whose sting
carried over
into the shadows of my childhood.
i know i wouldn’t be here
spitting out these vicious words
if it weren’t for
your egg, his seed.
and i am thankful for that.
but your countenance?
your picture in my memory?
it is nothing more than
a vague recollection,
a fuzzy image,
rough around the edges,
someone who couldn’t remember my name
nor cared to ever learn it.
when you go,
tears will be shed,
but not mine, nor my mother’s.
we all know this is true.
you have lived your life,
given purpose to what we want:
to be better mothers,
to stretch our love
into those shadowy places
where your hands couldn’t reach.
Un
am i really what you say?
do i hold the key you desire
to unlock unending questions?
i wish i could be the master of your domain,
the keeper of keys that would undo
every confusion you have inside you.
but as i trudge through these questions myself,
i find myself unable to unlock my own desires,
unable to open the door that leads to dreams.
You, Me, Him, Them
this is how it would be
you, me, him, them
being all grown up
while the kids
entertain themselves.
this is how it would be
if everything became
what we believed it would
back in the day
when dreams
were still imaginable.
this is how it would be
you, me, him, them
laughing into the night
eating delectable food
remembering our past,
planning for our future.
but it’s not,
and we all know
it never will be.
it will be just you and me
like always
talking about
you, me, him, them
and trying to figure out
where our dreams went awry.
Sarcasm
i’m so thrilled to know
that the class i dread the most
has the neediest, rudest students.
i’m so thrilled to see
that every imaginable computer problem
will happen seventh period.
i’m so thrilled to hear
how well my not-quite-eight-year-old
understands sarcasm.
i’m so thrilled to know
that you think i need to read a book about defiance
so i can begin to put her in line.
i’m so thrilled to remember
why it is that she and i were not defiant.
fear is a great facilitator of submission.
i’m so thrilled to hear
the temper tantrums and talking back
that follow me everywhere i go.
i’m so thrilled to be
in this place i cannot escape from,
in this hollow where i don’t know who i am.
let me be thrilled
about something for real:
that you will never read this
(not knowing who I really am).
Carry
as much as i hear what you say
i will never understand why.
how in any right mind
could five rooms full of
talking-back teenagers
ever compare
to the jubilant joy
of young children
dashing through the snow?
their voices carry
like songbirds emerged in winter,
shutting out all the
whipping wind’s hollowness.
yet,
you would rather be here,
trapped in our windowless dungeon,
feeding them the lines
you’ve spouted so many times?
i’ll take my two weeks
and carry them in my mind
on my forever vacation.
for now,
i will draw a zipper across my lips
and, for once, be polite.
after all,
this year cannot carry on,
and summer’s sun,
giggling girls,
and road trips
beckon my dreams
from your harsh reality.
Step Write… On
I started this blog on January 3rd, promising to write every day. Now I am entering my 363rd post, and even if I missed a few days here and there, I still managed to update the blog according to my goal. As I enter 2011, I am wondering what the future will hold. I was thinking about writing a blog called “Writing my Bike,” but there are so many other things I like to write about besides biking. My aim to stick with this for a year was partially inspired by the movie Julie and Julia. Not that I was thinking I would become a famous writer, exactly, but that I wanted to commit more of my time to writing. Sticking to one subject, as she did, just didn’t seem to work for me. Over the course of the year, the most hits I receive are for my posts about living on one salary and co-teaching. Interesting. There’s really not much more I can say about living on one salary, because most people are swimming in so much debt that they wouldn’t be able to consider it anyway. As far as co-teaching goes, my situation has improved quite a bit this school year, as I am working with different teachers, so I really don’t have anything bitchy to say, and can’t think of what I could add to the positive benefits I’ve already mentioned.
So… for 2011, perhaps I will continue to add daily posts… perhaps not. I love having a record, although at times an obscure one, of my day-to-day life, so even if few people ever read the blog, at least I will know what was happening at that point. Isn’t that really what a “web log” is supposed to be anyway? A log of one’s life?
Before I close, I would like to put down my resolutions. Just two. First, I would like to try to be more responsible with money, as we have racked up some debts in the past few months, and second, I aim to be consistent with providing the girls a weekly allowance. The only way they are ever going to learn how to manage money themselves is to start now. We’ll see how it goes.
Happy new year everyone! 2010 was an up-and-down year, so I’m hoping that 2011 will be smooth and easy.
Dimension
i am not here in this moment
of screaming, cussing anger.
i am magically moving my father’s car
into another dimension
here, at home, where i have a husband
who in thirteen years has barely
raised a voice, let alone allowed a cuss
in a world that is love, love, love.
you may pull forward your Sorento
and disappear into your hateful reality.
i prefer to remain in the dimension of love
that shields my heart from your evility.
you will drive home, your elderly parents
unable to determine where they went wrong.
i will drive until he takes the wheel from my
shaking hands, his hands on my hands, my heart.
Underbelly
we are here now,
sister, brother-in-law, niece,
grandparents who have filled
the underbelly of the tree
with Wal-mart’s
explosion of Chinese reality.
he and i lie in the dark
on our basement floor mattress,
the tint of the waning moon
lingering light upon his whiskered face.
Santa has already arrived,
stripped down because
the underbelly of the tree
regurgitated its recklessness.
i will never forget,
i tell him,
this time at my own
grandparents’ house,
when my mother,
her measly salary
half of my father’s pittance,
after seeing the
gifts my grandmother
inundated us with,
turned to him and said,
‘I hate being poor.‘
i try to remember this
as we rise before the sun,
set up the camera
in anticipation of their anxious faces,
and spend hours
exchanging money, goods
from the underbelly of the tree
that seems to mock,
wealth, wealth, wealth
with its shedding branches
that drop needles
like tears onto the hardwood.
Step Write Up 