the sun beats its way into summer
and simmers along the shore.
all i see are sparkles
brighter than diamonds
lighting up my lake,
my little girls piling
watery sand on my
abandoned-nail-polish feet,
hazy mountains in the distance
popping under bright blue sky,
my Colorado begging me to stay
but i know, i know,
their sand-castle grins
captured in my shitty lens,
that i will be home,
we will be home,
as long as we’re together
it’s not pizza
it’s Beau Jo’s
and we pile on honey
drive across grid-lined neighborhoods
and pray our van won’t die
between Denver and the suburbs
the kids are free tonight
we are free tonight
though strapped down by
a mortgage
two semi-functioning vehicles
endless governmental fees
and a dream that breaks my heart
every time the sun rises
Pandora nor my Mac
will play my music loud enough
i still love them anyway
and though we go to Spain
though we put our lives on the line
to go to Spain
i will love you anyway
i pedal into the sunset,
his dinner in my belly,
blue mountains backed by
a golden western sky
gold shines upon the path,
the endless evening walkers,
melts into cotton candy clouds
turning twilight into night
the circular connection of trails
brings me in and out of cities,
a world all my own, filled with
cottonwoods, creeks, canals
i imagine the townhome
hidden somewhere along the way
where we will retire, bring
our grandchildren home to
i could pick it out along the trail–
a tiny yard, garage, swimming pool,
shaded by the trees along the creek,
protected from city splendor
it would be as perfect as these moments
along the path, my pedals spinning
behind blue mountains, the golden twilight
that we will one day call our own
it is like any other day.
it is unlike any other day.
i strip in thirty seconds
and replace appropriate attire
with oh-so-attractive cycling gear
i have it all–
the tight shorts, leggings,
arm-hugging shirt,
fingers-enclosed gloves
to fight a bitter headwind,
helmet with its beautiful
pop-top blaring light,
oversized headphones
that won’t fall out of my ears,
my music. set.
i pedal hard.
the wind scathes me,
but the sun settles amongst
perfectly puffy clouds,
a blue sky spring
and a creek
with mama mallard, daddy duck,
so idyllic i want to
trap their innocence in a lens,
all before i reach Arapahoe Road.
i can’t trap it,
but i take my headwind in stride,
arrive home to three
bright-shirted girls
who make music of their own
he texts me later,
driving home from the ice,
stuck in traffic
on Arapahoe Road.
Lexus Mustang BMW Tahoe,
i illicitly reply,
i fit right in.
(bumper-tied-on 98 Hyundai)
he sends back a laugh
and i smile,
the picture perfect ride
as i crossed this very street
present in the forefront of my mind
on this day like any other,
this day unlike any other.
we have left the pretty pink bar,
beauty slipping from sky in silent flakes.
the roads are not icy yet,
but moist in anticipation:
the wipers push away drops
(we have no possibility of sliding)
i watch the silent storm
move into my city,
remembering him in eighth grade,
so tiny and cute,
turning around in social studies
and making fun of the teacher
he is not here,
but rides along the slick streets
inside my mind as i pull back
the cautious, modest man he has become,
a beauty in the Beauty Bar
with his grace and patience,
more perfect than any dress
he could ever create
for the runway of his dreams.
we sit in central citified sun
sipping smoothies and lattes,
munching on freshly baked croissants
and chatting with strangers
on a day so warm it can’t be
the third week of January
(a beauty we all share
as we peel off our winter coats)
they skip alongside on an impromptu adventure,
moving along the zero street,
playing pig and picking out dates
on ovular stamps in concrete.
we enter the train store
and examine the pure wonder
of details so tiny, humans
standing knee-deep in plexiglass water,
monkeys climbing up a fallen-apart billboard,
and fast-moving trains. one declares,
it is nothing short of art
later i pedal into the wind
around the dam and up the hill
until i see the circular beauty of the lake,
and its curvacious path
interweaves me with a hundred pairs of legs,
all taking advantage
of this day like no other
before i am home
i am home,
and can almost forget
the tears whose all night sting
kept my eyes bleeding till morning,
the two dark, cold miles of separation,
and the hollowness of our words
that find their way
into the poems he wishes i wouldn’t write.
Dear Brittany, Tuesday, September 11, 2001 8:30 p.m.
I just keep hearing it. A line from a movie? A speech from a long-dead political leader? Or a description, so precise, so harsh, so true of this very day in the history of the world.
“A day that will live in infamy.”
I don’t even know where to begin. Should I repeat, in this journal, the story that I’ve heard from 20 journalists, seen video and photos of over 100 times, repeated in over 100 ways? Or, when I look back at this entry years from now, perhaps as a mother, a grandmother, a dying old woman, will the date alone strike a chord and bring back the terror of this day?
Will I be able to look back, many years from now, or will this journal be ashes in the rubble remaining from days of nuclear warfare?
I face the same questions as everyone else; the questions I ask my students to answer every time they read a story or write a paper: Who? What? Where? When?
WHY?
HOW?
Are these the keys to good writing, or unanswerable interrogations about our country, our world, our humanity?
No, I cannot answer today; maybe not ever. I stare blankly at the muted screen, its words that so quickly skid across the bottom, blurry to my tired eyes. I can’t listen anymore. I look at the seriousness of the journalists’ faces, the grave, reserved anxiety, unable to keep my thoughts on track. What track? Where am I going? Where are we going? The questions again, endless, like the questions you ask yourself when you’re reading a great story.
Only, this isn’t a story.
–KMV
i thought i hated you
but you have come back in dreams
the holographic star
not letting loose a feathery dress
formed by British hands
instead the skyscrapers formed from stardust
i could call it haunting
(for it wakes me)
but it is a joyous light
leading so many home
in those underground pathways
too hot to touch in my subconscious
you will return
just as i have to you
and we will remember being eight
and the giant Christmas tree over ice
the guards in front of FAO
and the stardust skyscrapers
now rising up from ash
how can i explain
the twisted logic
she openly verbalizes
as we sift through photos
of smoke and ash?
she will only see (one day)
perfect reflection pools,
beams of light calling to heaven,
beautiful bright buildings
standing like shadows
in place of what was lost.
she will not remember
(or pull back tears as i do),
but look into the world
with the hope that
the twisted logic of those ‘pilots’
is left behind with the rubble
they wrapped in a flag and carried home.
stacks of multicolored blocks
lacework avenues weaving
sky touching over streams of cars
thick-trunked trees lost in shadow
bleeps and beeps choking the air
incongruous shiny signs
endless lines of legs
ceiling of constellations
click and squeak of metal wheels
linguistic rainbow of voices
center of opportunity, hope
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