the light right now
as i kiss my girls goodnight?
it is unlike any other sunset,
the clouds a perfect concoction
of pink and gray,
and they hold tight to my neck
and beg me for stories of Medusa
that Silverstein told them about,
that i ad-lib with college knowledge.
i’m going to college,
they chime in,
three birds in a row,
so i can know as much as you
and they are my girls
through and through
daughters
A Million Times More
the emotions are so intense
when the right song is played
when my girls say the right words
i cannot fathom my life without them
they sit under green blanket
as i write this
my oldest inflecting as needed
the words she learned years ago to read
my middle girl?
the best combination
of crone and imaginative maiden
fantasy worlds mixed with logic
and the baby?
idealism at its best
all the things we’ve dreamed of
wrapped up in a five-year-old’s summary
i cannot fathom
my life
without these girls
(i’ve said it before
i’ve named a poem
i’ll say it a million times more)
March (2012) Daughters
Isabella
you pop out of bed
with a craving for peppermint tea–
it’s been a long night,
filled with the turmoil
of the ever-adamant stomach bug.
you should be sleeping,
wanting to watch mindless television.
instead you run on the treadmill,
make circles with your bike
and spend a three-hour afternoon
entertaining your friends and siblings
along every corner of the park
you may walk around the house
as cheeky as a teenager (age nine)
wearing your iPod like
an artificial limb,
but on days like this,
your boundless energy ever present,
i know just how much
you are my daughter.
Mythili
you are ferocious, tenacious
in everything you do,
whether it’s your insistence on hunger
(even soon after eating)
or your commitment
to your best friend,
sharing nicknames with her,
demanding to spend school nights
sleeping over at her house,
and loving her, fighting with her
as if she is the other sister
you never had
i know you are only seven,
but i see so much
of an adult in your
not-quite-innocent level of dedication;
i can already picture
the woman you will be
Riona
the exuberant smile
that carried you out the door
after them
has disappeared as you
plod back in,
morose expression of want
dripping from your face
you point to the scratch,
a tearless, silent cry for attention,
and i put all i have
(my ice cold beer bottle)
against the unbleeding skin.
pop! there it is again,
the exuberant smile
of the littlest angel
whose delicate pleas for love
are always so easily satisfied
Good
just like a baby
my baby curls in to cuddle
her small body
still fits into my lap
i can’t replace the hours we’ve lost
the years we’ve lost
or fill the ache in my heart
for the good i’m trying to do
that doesn’t do me any good
but when her tears creep down?
when she won’t go for a night of fun
because she’s missed me too much,
when the weeks have flooded by
in a pile of work
that i’m so fucking good at
when i can’t just be her mother?
it is too much
and i am five again
just like her
searching for my mother’s arms
to comfort the sadness
that rests so heavily on my soul
Across the Ice
i don’t fit in here,
this suburban-sports-mom place–
ice skates and hockey pucks,
wealth dripping from
concession-stand ketchup
onto Gucci bags,
iPhones snapping
pictures of perfection
(pictures i will never take)
she wants to be a part of it all,
not for one second
jaded by the disorganization,
the preferred treatment of boys,
the simplicity of the lesson
she’s too skilled for and
that costs as much as i make in a day
i want to give it to her
and take her home
all in the same moment,
to tell her she won’t lose her childhood
if she spends her afternoons
playing in the cul-de-sac
with the homeschooled,
underexposed neighbors
but her eyes?
her weeks of anticipation?
i can’t take back this gift,
this inherent joy
that will carry her across the ice
and into her miniature version
of the dream
we all have inside ourselves
January (2012) Daughters
Isabella
since age two,
in intermittent spurts
you creep downstairs
in the dark hours of morning,
your voice cautious,
Daddy?
(because you know me well enough
to leave me be)
he won’t wake up,
(you are almost nine)
and i send you back up to your room,
telling you that you’re old enough now
to soothe yourself back to sleep
you leave the room sobbing.
i toss and turn
in my already-restless sleep
worrying over the scar i’d created,
a bitter hole in our relationship
you’d remember till you die
when i wake you for school,
you have a happy story
about little Laura and locusts
from the book that soothed you,
fully forgiving me for nighttime selfishness
i think back to my childhood,
how i would have treated my parents
to silence for a day,
pouting in defiance
perhaps you,
insomniac, crazy, loud-mouthed you (me)
are just a little different,
so subtle that i couldn’t catch
your drying tears to see
the beauty of your individual soul
(i see it now,
and i am so proud to be your mama)
Mythili
you are a young woman,
though seven,
you prove time and again
how easily words will come–
you have backtalk and sass
like a teenager
and know just what not to say
one punishment is enough
to teach you a lifelong lesson,
and you take your crone’s hands
and draw pictures
with delicate detail
only mastered by true artists
how you came to be mine,
with your fierce independence
and longing for touch
while simultaneously craving
to be left alone,
will mystify me as you move
into the next step
of your beautiful life.
Riona
you will not speak
at times specified only in
your quiet mind,
a mystery to all of us
who wish to hear your words
i know you hide behind
those dark lashes
a collection of truths
that will someday spill out
now you save your words
for strangers in your first
cookie outings
while we wait
at home, at school,
for the thumb to come out,
for the gentle voice
to roll over our minds
and bring us to the real you.
Nothing Short of Art
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.
(Parenthetical)
i don’t want a poem with pushed out words,
one that couldn’t capture the heated moment
of tears she keeps at the corners of her eyes,
a poem that pushes out unbelonging rhymes,
one that couldn’t draw a picture
of her head in my lap,
her sorrow seeping into my knees,
one that will tell me
(teacher’s note signed)
that my daughter has moved
from above average to average
i don’t want a poem
with pushed out thoughts
to taper my emotions back behind me
like my on-fire muscles during workouts,
riding up my back like a hot rope
that i will never pull tight enough
i want a poem like the songs i sing
(out of tune)
my own tears falling willingly
in the dark hours of morning
as i belt out lyrics
with the best of them,
my shaky voice
everything that is
inside and outside of me
i want a poem with well-formed words,
one that will sing to my soul,
make me remember this day
because it is like any other day
(it is unlike any other day)
i will only have it once,
and i want to grab that poem,
squeeze it in my palm,
and suck the bloody juice
until i can taste the truth
of the world found in imperfect poetry
December (2011) Daughters
Riona
you tiptoe across carpet
in froggy footed pajamas
the small smile on your cheeks
as you wait for your turn
under the tree.
your sisters pick out gifts
easily identifiable
and we ask you what Santa
brought for little Riona.
you keep your small sweet smile
your eyes focused on a small box
of green marshmallow Peeps.
your little hands pick it up
and without a word you nod.
i hold back tears.
in five years i have instilled nothing
in the pure and grateful heart
you came into this world with
overlooking the bicycle next to the tree
for a candy you don’t even like
and i remember just why we are here.
Mythili
you won’t sleep on long drives
as your sisters snooze away
you play games with your dolls
tell stories about adventures with Mama
and make song requests.
you have lyrics memorized
to songs i didn’t even realize
the words to myself
your favorite this month?
“If I Had a Million Dollars”
to which every last non-singing note
spills from your lips
in a harmony of artistry
from the back seat of the van.
Isabella
she only loves you.
her almost-two hands push me away
with her classic dirty look.
she can’t say your name yet
but grins when you help her dress
take her to the potty
put food on her plate.
your almost-nine hands
are the perfect match
for your young cousin
and you proudly announce to the world
what an amazing child you are.
Grateful Grin and All
the sun has set in cloudville, but
on the drive home the clouds clear,
a starlit sky to bring in Santa,
who sits up setting up a bicycle
and filling stockings with little girl joys.
the clock ticks on. he is
as silent as the sacred night
and i know (i know)
he will let my tears slide
into the passenger’s view
of the endless drive.
they awaken (not too early)
and my unassuming five-year-old
overlooks the bicycle beside the tree,
pointing instead, grateful grin and all,
to the green Christmas tree Peeps,
the simplest gift of gratitude
that i ache to gather in my arms.
(if i could love)
if i could have for one moment
the beautiful temperament
she came into the world with,
the sadness surrounding my heart
would melt away with the first bite
of overly sweetened marshmallow.
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