daughters

Pain to Peace

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i step inside to tears
worthy of sudden death,
three red-eyed girls
limp with want,
unable to spill the tale.

my heart jumps into my veins.
“where’s Daddy?” i pop out.
“what’s wrong?”
but tears and moans
fill the gaping holes
of longing.

their pain is my panic.
i pull them into my arms,
sing them songs,
wait for the story to sift through
the tormented version of truth
their small minds will allow.

he enters, patient but done,
his version highly revised,
worthy of publication.
with girls in arms,
books on laps,
words and pictures from pages,
hugs and kisses goodnight,
we move from pain to peace.

Sound Effects

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in line for coffee
a new dessert tray
slides into the bakery shelf.
their hands on the glass
they oooooohhhhh
in choral exultation.
the old couple behind us
chuckle, thank us for
the sound effects,
the beauteous sounds
of three little girls,
the simple sounds
of life’s little pleasures.

Tie

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with these books,
their warm legs,
my voice,
the frazzled day
melts away.
we forget how many times
they argued over
who sat where
what toothpaste to use
whose turn it was on the iPad
and remember
the comforting magic of
words and pictures
that tie together
everything we think
might fall apart.

Icicles

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fog creeps in
beckoning spring
with an absent snowfall
frost on the branches
we wait
i wait
new bicycle shining
under the flash
never yet on pavement
one thousand
rooftops mimic mountains
i cannot see
he tells me by 2050
too many people will live here
to sustain life
and why am i having another child
vanilla caramel cream porter
mixed with dates that match up exactly
eleven
twenty-two
eighty-nine years
my grandmother enters
and leaves this life.

it is monday
only monday
the week is fresh
new like the snow
that will creep in on cats’ paws
as we sleep
and i wonder
if my girls
who met her once
will brave the cold
the cold, the cold
and bury the seed
that brought them into this world
the seed from last century
the person who they will never know
whose words ring
like icicles on snow
we wait for all night.

Me

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i don’t want to be here.
i’m good at this.
i’ve read enough
to share stories and articles
with my co-teachers,
have taught enough
to take over their lessons on the fly,
remember her words enough
to stand at the front and teach
while simultaneously seeing students
for who they really are,
can move through classrooms
and schedules with
hauntingly smooth ease,
can grade a stack of 150
short constructed responses
before the state test is over
and still take the time
to cry a little when i see
how poor a student’s score will be

but i cannot
i cannot
take the tears out of my four-year-old’s eyes
after the rushed-morning goodbye,
the words i cannot take back,
the days
the months
the years
i cannot take back,
the me
(the mommy me)
who i fear will never be as good
as the me
who walks down these hallways.

Missed

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what have i missed
with the words that won’t end,
what smile or giggle
did my daughters try to send?

how can i allow
your endless conversation
to suck up my night
with this awkward situation?

if he would do his work
and you would let it go
then perhaps we wouldn’t have to
fill our worry-carts with woe.

but no one here seems to care
that waiting is not enough
that sloth and slacking are rewarded
–hard work a dire rebuff.

what have i missed
with the words that never end
that haunt my insomnia
with a world i cannot mend?

February Daughters (2011)

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Isabella

infinitesimally eight
you round out your three-day weekend
with consecutive sleepovers
endless games and dives
at Casa Bonita
and round-the-block singing
of Girl Scout songs
in your train of Brownie vests.

infinitesimally eight
i hope you will remember
this bright moment
of your youth
with these words you will
someday read.

Mythili

Mixing in with the older set
Yearning for forever-gone blankey
True to your matter-of-fact words
Heatedly demanding justice
Imaginative to no end
Loving the art that shapes your life
Inundated with the realities of school.

Riona

tears and sobs take control of you
at the mere mention of Daddy’s death
a death unknown, far-reaching
and my arms can’t console
the sensitive child
who needs to nestle
in his shoulder,
dentist-forbidden thumb in mouth,
your cries simmering down
to the ever emanating warmth
of his love for you,
his Daddy’s Girl.

Rainbow

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we’re a cookie train
decked out in
conductors’ clothes:
Brownie and Daisy,
brown and blue,
multicolored patches
glistening in the sun,
red wagon behind
brimming with
a rainbow of boxes
tied with
red, yellow, green, purple
ribbons,
blue and white cards,
working our way
through the melting-snow streets
to bring a little happiness
on a Sunday afternoon.

One Night of the Year

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we had uninvited guests
uninvite themselves back,
an impromptu invitation,
and our simple plans
of pot roast with
potatoes, parsnips, carrots,
mini-quiches and veggie pies,
tortilla chips and salsa,
butterscotch pudding cake
and French vanilla ice cream,
and kids as excited as
tree-swinging monkeys
for the one night of the year
that they can eat dinner
in front of the television.

it’s like a holiday
without the hullabaloo,
and our lack-of-sports
Sunday routine
can be broken
for this one night of the year.

Silver

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with aching muscles
i nestle into the leather couch
surrounded by strangers,
our children
piling on top of
giant silver foam blocks,
forming friendships
as quickly
as the silvery flakes falling
outside the wall
of white-framed windows.

i watch the snow slither
into the city,
the silver titanium points
of this art museum
a perfect picture frame
of the silvery cityscape of skyscrapers
standing tall against the winter.

it is all warmth here,
all smiles,
and we could stay all afternoon
or forever in my memory.