choices

Lovers’ Quarrel

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You and I, we have our course and miles set:
a journey plotted amidst winds and trail closures,
a day after torrential rains and their
resulting torrential (all over the path) floods

yet no journey is complete without a moment
of hesitation, of paths lost, of alternate routes

we travel the way I remember (years ago,
a different bike carried me to work this way)
but the path is twisted, filled with tree roots
and curves that you’ve told me you dislike.

at our usual high-speed pace (we made a pact
to beat our record), the sidewalk jumps up and grabs
us. like disconsolate lovers, we tumble to the ground,
rolling over each other’s metal, skin, plastic, blood.

i lie for perhaps five minutes, adjusting my headphones
so not to miss my story, thinking perhaps my leg is broken

there could be phone calls to make and i’ll need a new
helmet, but when i stand, i grin at my bruised-up,
perfectly movable leg, and gasp at you tangled beside
me, my partner in this determined destiny we’ve set.

when i lift you and turn the wheel, you too have suffered
scrapes in our lovers’ quarrel. i adjust your chain, wiping
my greasy fingers on our towel, swipe the broken pieces of
the cateye to the ground, and we are off once again.

“that was only mile three,” I whisper, and your unscathed
silver frame, your perfectly intact black tires, lead me
into the wind, the pain of our bruises washed away with
spring’s air, water from the overflowing creek, and love.

Magma

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i don’t want to be this parent
but sometimes the anger boils up
and overflows, spewing ash
that blocks my love for you

it’s still there (the love), hot
magma in the depths of my
hollowed out mountain, but
it’s a slow and heavy river.

you are asleep by the time
the ash settles, gray streaks
of its tiny particles on your cheeks,
and i will not wake you.

the clouds are slow and heavy at dawn,
mimicking my magma as you wake
and i take you into the hollow,
wrapping you in the warmth of my love.

Greener Pastures

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you are not what i thought
and it’s tearing me up
though for once i won’t
say a word about it

but i am disappointed
having to come home this way
trying to shed the mood
that infiltrates my daughter

her exhausted screams
echo through the house
so that i cannot hear
the others’ gurgling happiness

in my soul i reach for her
but my hands, my arms are here
because i’m burned right now
and she’ll sizzle at my touch.

it’s not you, but my blindness,
my greener pastures journey
that has led me right back to
where i never wanted to be again.

as if she knows this, she calls out
in panting gasps, searching for
an answer, a reason, that neither
of us will ever be able to find.

Baggage

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what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
four spinning wheels for
simple maneuvering in and out of doors,
a handle that slid up and down with the
smooth ease of young love,
straps for easy carrying on the back
(thickly padded, covered in felt)

nothing like the heavy sets of mismatched
baggage, beaten from too many travels,
wheelless and torn, strapless and with
handles that break out blisters on palms,
identifiable only by their massive weight,
their inability to fit easily into anyone’s trunk,
that everyone else, now older,
carries with them into relationships.

what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
inside it we rolled up our
running socks, fuzzy pajamas,
pants for every season, swimsuits and gloves,
and packed ourselves a trip that would
far surpass the one that the people
around us told us not to take.

What He Does

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What he does if you need to know
(really? it’s been five years)
is wake up one morning girl
and two obstinately not-morning girls
arguing with them to
go to the bathroom, get dressed,
eat breakfast, brush teeth,
and get out the door
before most people have left for work.

Alone, because I have usually
left already to enjoy a bike ride to school
(something he allows me to do
every day if I want, without question)
and even if they don’t want to do
any of it, with his patient words,
his no-nonsense attitude,
he convinces them to obey.

What next? You’d be amazed.
Takes Mythili back and forth
to preschool, setting timers for
snack and show-and-tell reminders,
grocery shopping with Riona in tow,
plans a menu that is healthy
(and that they’ll all eat, and that
we can afford), cooks and does dishes,
sets out my morning coffee and oatmeal,
cleans the house top to bottom every Friday,
(have you ever seen Dad use a vacuum?)
budgets and pays all our bills,
takes the girls to the park,
the zoo, the museum,
sets up play dates
and manages homework.

All without one critical word,
with the sensitive nurturing
every child needs and deserves,
all so that our evenings are calm,
relaxed, child-filled (not errand-filled),
so that we have a home, not a house.

What does he do, you ask?
Have you not seen our spotless home,
tasted our delectable dinners,
thrived on his technological advice,
and witnessed firsthand those
small arms reaching out for Daddy?

Let me apologize.
Perhaps you have not been blinded by love,
or perhaps in your narrow world of
work, work, work,
you have forgotten (or never knew)
what a happy family,
a perfect husband,
looks like.

tears (tears)

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with a flushed face and
remnants of tears, she
insists on putting her sandals on herself.

i clutch her in my arms,
guiding my hands over hers
to ensure they get put on the right feet.

it is the least i can do to calm my nerves,
the doctor’s receptionist’s voice
(calm as daylight): “She needs to go to the ER.”

i drive fast but he is already calling
(one mile out) “Maybe the fever will go down.”
he reads the Internet article.

i ponder what we would ever do without it
simultaneously cursing the web for making
me question my decision.

cursing myself for not charging my phone,
i call my office number one, two, three times.
no one answers. i will be alone with her.

and i cannot allow myself to cry this time
because Bruce won’t be there to wipe
the tears from my cheeks.

i use his phone to call my sister,
my medical expert, the scientist,
the cancer survivor, the new mother.

she knows more than me, and
before we even hang up, i have unbuckled
her, am carrying her to triage.

i think how at our doctor’s office
we almost never wait (how interminably
long they make us wait here, the tears flowing).

i stay strong and hold her hands as the nurse
squeezes in the last bit of Tylenol, as the doctor
swabs her throat, as she shakes and screams.

later (a phone call home, an antibiotics debate)
the doctor returns with a giant purple popsicle
and she is all smiles (we have survived).

we walk out, both of us, her tugging at her wrist,
and with the tone of a much-older-than-three-year-old,
“I need this bracelet off now.”

she tears at it on the ride home,
anxious to shred all evidence of this horrid affair,
the tears (hers and mine) released now with relief.

I Could Have Skipped This

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I could have skipped this
but then I would have missed
the sunrise glistening
like a sparkling curtain,
opening today’s show
(carried by wind that
pushes against me, a
wall I will fight now
for the pat on the back
later today)

I could have skipped this
but then I would have missed
the absences she’s had,
the plight of the struggling student
who so demurely
will not ask for help
(but will accept the
help I offer her)

I could have skipped this
but then I would have missed
the smiles on their faces
as they took turns riding
the scooter round and round,
the perfect homemade ice cream
dripping happiness from their chins,
(the memory that I created
with a spontaneous choice)

I could have skipped this
but then I would have missed
the chance to make
a lesson that will enlighten
them, make each of us stronger,
and create the collaboration
that guides them to the
success every student deserves.

I could have skipped this…
but then I would have missed
the life that I have chosen
because I didn’t skip this.

In This Moment

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in this moment

I can find the pace I need to get me there stronger
Mythili can “read” a whole page in her elaborate story
Riona can say “I wuv you” seven times
Isabella can brush her top teeth by herself

and someone on the other side of the world
or right across town
is giving birth to a perfectly healthy baby
while another lost soul is pointing a gun to his head

in this moment

I can hear Alanis Morisette motivating my pedals
my students can see twenty pictures on Google
of the cedar trees they’ve never heard of
the teachers can track me down for brownies

and someone right across town
or on the other side of the world
is pounding a woman’s skull into the drywall,
while another is handing a ten-year-old his first pair of shoes.

in this moment

I will live
I will love
I will remember what I have
what we all have
(somewhere within us)

Soles (Souls)

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I will remember when I complain
of my aching feet,
my seemingly disconnected joints,
those tiny porters
(miniature gods)
who didn’t have the money
to go to the fancy running store
and have their strides analyzed,
buying new sneakers
for $100 to relieve the
pounding of pavement on soles (souls)

I will remember when I complain
the three overstuffed backpacks
they each strapped to their narrow backs,
the recycled tires
that didn’t cover the exposed soles (souls)
on their small, Peruvian feet,
the cans of propane and three dozen eggs
they carried in each hand
as they raced up the mountain
in front of us tired tourists,
setting up twenty tents, hot tea, and cookies
before any of us could make
half a step up the million along the Inca trail.

I will remember when I complain
that this is easy,
that anyone could run a half marathon,
that the weight I carry will never match
the burden of poverty
that pushes them beyond human strength
to the top of the mountain,
to the ruins famous worldwide,
to the place where we should all be equal,
where history plus nature creates a masterpiece,
the place where our souls (soles) may rest.

Tea Party

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don’t say you missed me when
every other day of the year
you swim in a pool of your own apathy
(while I drown in it)
and my bitterness rises to the top
floating in a foggy black cloud
as you dive in, trying to break through
and circle the currents until
you reach a depth where
I sit, criss-cross applesauce,
setting up my tea party just like
my first grade swim lessons,
holding my breath while simultaneously
showing you the talents
that you will never discover
because you never took the time
to dive deep, deep, deep enough.