you are like wasps
hiding in crevices
along the back patio,
swooping in to hover
around the barbecued flesh
that is meant for our mouths.
though we swat at your wings,
we know the stingers
are positioned, aimed,
ready for the bite
that will sacrifice your lives
in your haste for consumption.
in our hands we hold
the greasy meat
that could sustain us all.
if only you could feel
outside of your minuscule mouths
how tasty our coexistence could be.
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.
with dry, windburned cheeks
and layer upon layer,
my headlamp prominent
as a beacon on my helmet,
i face this winter like no other.
it stands between now and the end,
these hills and my mountain,
and no matter how cold,
no matter the unending wind,
no matter the disapproving glances,
i will pedal my way to a better tomorrow.
the only thing better
than knowing we’ve helped the earth
just a tad
with our fresh cut tree
is coming home
from a long day at work
to a house
with a lingering smell of pine.
We stand in tights, leggings, skirts,
a tie and jacket, dolled up as much as
our fellow theatre-goers
waiting for the train.
Our breaths form miniature clouds
as they enter the humid night air.
We shuffle our feet, clap our hands,
pull up our hoods, rejoice at the lights
of the train curving around the tracks.
Everyone says, How old are they?
Going to the theatre? Shrek tonight?
Beautiful girls, beautiful, beautiful girls.
As we stand clutching the pole, no room.
It couldn’t be better. The pictures we took
(soon to be Christmas cards), the lipstick
now smearing across their cheeks,
the laugh-your-ass-off musical of our dreams.
Four, six, almost eight, I tell them.
They say it only gets better. But how can it
be better than this? Dinner at a local restaurant,
riding the train downtown, the theatre,
three little, little girls as proud as new parents?
We’ll see. For now, I take their tiny hands in mine,
dash through the tunnel with lights that
ring at their anxious pats, their pink jackets
and polka-dot tights reminding me of the youth
we all have within us, the youth, the love we crave.
1. Forget about owning a new car. If you can’t forget it, stop reading now. You can eliminate up to $800 a month in payments if you don’t have a car payment and its ensuing expensive insurance.
2. Buy the minimum coverage for car insurance. Take a risk. It’s worth it.
3. Pay off all your debts (other than mortgage) before you consider it.
4. Save for retirement in a 401K, 403b, or whatever you can. It may be the only money you save for a while. But it’s something.
5. Take advantage of refinancing when the interest rates are at their lowest.
6. Eat at home 90% of the time.
7. Bike or carpool to work.
8. Use your tax returns wisely: pay off debts, save a little, use the rest for a small vacation.
9. Speaking of vacations: drive. It’s better for the environment, less scheduled, and more up to you. Have kids? Drive at night. They’ll sleep, you’ll be happy.
10. Buy used. Buy used. Buy used. I just bought three sweaters, a hat, and two nice pairs of pants for work at the Goodwill for $22. Brand-name products that look brand new. Craigslist is a great place to find virtually anything you need, from kids’ toys to bikes.
11. Create a monthly budget. Stick to it as much as possible.
12. Expect the unexpected. Cars (especially the old one you’re driving) will break down. It’s better to put it on a credit card you can pay off in a few months than to pay a car payment.
13. Do a babysitting exchange with another family. Enjoy an occasional night out without the extra cost.
14. Look for sale items at the grocery store and stock up.
15. Cancel your cable. You can watch a variety of things on the Internet, and Netflix is much more affordable. There’s nothing on TV anyway.
16. Get books and audiobooks from the library. Music too.
17. For gift giving, take advantage of after-Christmas sales and stock up on kids’ toys and Christmas wrapping paper. Flip the wrapping paper inside out to wrap gifts for every occasion.
18. Give up hair dyeing, manicures, pedicures, and salons. You’re beautiful the way you are.
19. Weather-proof your house as much as possible to save money on energy costs. Use cold water for washing clothes.
20. Decide what you really need to buy versus what you want to buy. Make sound choices, and you’ll have extra money (occasionally) to blow on fun items.
this is just to say
i have taken all the money
from our account
in order to buy wholesome food
for our children
for us
for one week
and i wish
that the government
would subsidize health
rather than
corn, soybeans, and wheat
so that perhaps
for more than a week
we could know
just what we were putting
into our mouths,
our stomachs,
our lives.
i just can’t imagine
a day without words,
blinded by a burka,
unable to read,
children at my feet,
a whip near my back.
i won’t imagine it,
but instead relish
the freedom i have
to show everyone
just who i am.
some shop for the latest fashion
some shop for gems and jewels
i shop for the gems and jewels
of harvest,
choosing with a critical eye
only the latest, greatest styles:
heirloom potatoes
that melt in my mouth like
smooth cream,
zucchini longer than my forearm
to be chopped and diced
and catapulted into recipes,
red bell peppers to top
hand-tossed, homemade pizza,
tomatoes perfectly plump
to sauce up our lives,
peaches for pies and jams,
carrots (cheap and easy)
to fill the girls’ lunch sacks,
and apples.
apples of every variety,
their taste carrying me through the year,
their travels from the
western slope
filling my bag, basket, bushel
until i work with them
two days straight,
coring, cutting, cooking, canning,
jars of applesauce, apple butter
making the house smell
like a cinnamon dream,
lined up on the shelf:
the shiniest, most fashionable
gems and jewels
of golden red
to decorate my style.
hovering over the highway
gray clouds attempt to rain
in a swirl of condensation
they reach down toward earth.
i watch the gas gauge hover on empty
as the rain stays high
unable to bring relief
to a guzzling, thirsty world.
we make it home and i promise
not to drive this van for a week
just as everyone posts complaints
about the football game.
it is stuttered like the rain
unable to fall, unable to win,
so close to what we can see
but in our ignorance can’t reach.
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