dreams

My Naked Feet

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i am 34
i am 16
i am glaring at you
and i have cried for three days
she won’t say a word

i dial his number
she drives in my
barefoot-on-pavement rain
the same water that washed away
my 16-year-old Oxfordian tears?
these are the tears
that will take me to Spain

that will bring back my youth
and allow me to say goodbye
to everything i have ever known

and when i send these
(as she calls them)
poetic texts?
they will wash away
when i put my naked feet
on the pavement again
on another continent
a place i’ve never been
a place i’ve only dreamed about

Nonrefundable Reservations

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day eleven, wall seventeen:
a stack of irreplaceable bills,
nonrefundable reservations
scraping at my dream
(everything i can’t give,
everything i can’t take back)

will it be worth it,
will they open their eyes wider
upon breathing Mediterranean air,
or will the burdens bearing down
on mama and daddy
be heavier than sea-level breath?

if i could slide down the mountains
right down into the sea
and shed myself of my
nonrefundable reservations,
would i be free enough to see the beauty
behind the walls i must still face?

My Last Four Days

/ lovizmytrio / 1 Comment

this will be my last four days.
i have one cardboard box,
a creekside path,
an empty laptop bag,
and just a bit of my soul
trailing me out the door.

i’d like to leave it open,
for you to say, Come back.
i haven’t asked for much–
and given so much instead,
but you don’t see the notes
i receive from a teacher
twenty years back,
the one who saw the light in me
when i was thirteen,
when i am thirty-four

instead you are blinded by dollars,
hassles, and paperwork
(aren’t we all?)
so much that the dream
that once burned inside you?
it has withered away
into a tiny flame
barely bright enough
to blaze beside my fire

Thirteen Ways of Looking at These Brownies

/ lovizmytrio / 2 Comments

Modeled after Wallace Stevens’
“Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”

I
my grandmother’s hands
sifting the too-expensive flour
to make my father his
50th birthday cake
(the last time she would show me
her Italian kitchen)

II
the torn-apart bag
flour spilling at the reams
and the brownie recipe of my dreams

III
the first bite of brownie
a culinary orgasmic attack
against the tongue
of every sweet i’d
previously put into my mouth

IV
the shy nudge
the first placement
of a brownie on another’s desk
a reach for friendship

V
imagine a bicycle
a saddlebag
a laptop
five pounds of brownies
1029 feet of elevation gain
gratitude at the end of the ride

VI
Thursday evening
sun setting over every season
a thick black spoon
eight ingredients
black brownie mix
as thick as hope

VII
brownie thank-you cards
mysteriously appear in my mailbox

VIII
handwritten notes
begging to be included on
The Brownie List

IX
popping peppermint in at Christmas
and my daughter’s two-month-later birthday
because everyone has a favorite brownie

X
the joy that rests in your mouth
after eating the brownie
and the joy that rests in your heart
after sharing the taste–
they are one and the same

XI
the small hands
that crack eggs
that beg for a taste
that show the mercy of generosity
as together we make brownies

XII
4500 applicants
an ocean
an opportunity of a lifetime
a store without my brownie ingredients

XIII
seven of the best years of my life
a semi-broken heart
and all the brownies
i will never be able to bake

Crossroads

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every morning
as i come to my crossroads
just after dawn
touches her fingers to sky,
i make my decision–
an uphill battle
breaking my muscles,
the wind of the highlands
an ever-greater challenge
than the meandering creek

i pedal for simple sights:
the middle-aged blonde
with two matching goldens,
(sometimes leashed, sometimes free)
the bright yellow spot
of a SmartCar, and me
always wondering just where
on the curvacious beauty of
a road i will pass it,
the ever-silent deer
who peer intently at my machine
as they stand cautiously
at the edge of civilization.

and today? a gift,
the top of the most tenuous climb,
the wind bending back leaves
and straightening out flags,
pushing against my will,
when what should cross the road
but a lone pronghorn,
its native spirit leaping
over barbed wire and into
the chaparral, leaving me to
finish my ride, open up
a starvation-induced chocolate
whose wrapper reads,
You are exactly where
you’re supposed to be

(i don’t throw it away,
its aluminum words
imprinted on the crossroads
that may lead me elsewhere tomorrow)

Tree

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in one week my life
will sprout a new leaf–
i hope to know
just where the wind will take me
as i add another ring
to my tree

will i blow to the east
and the sun that rises
so coldly each morning,
or stay west
where my roots are buried
as deep as my soul?

i wish i could see
the color of the bud
as it blossoms from my branches,
but only time will tell
just which way the wind will blow

Golden Dream

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a three thousand pound weight,
sacks of gold too heavy to lift.
if i could fill them with feathers
and build myself a pair of wings?
i would fly right into the sky
and release myself from monetary need

instead i face a financial dilemma–
drop the gold i can’t quite carry
into the gaping hole of a beast
who will swallow it whole and us too,
leaving behind nothing but wisps
lighter than feathers, unable to fly?

or hold fast to a dream that flies
into every moment of my sleeping wake,
forget the beasts that bear down on me,
and throw my sacks of gold into the sea
as i fly my way to a tomorrow that
i have waited for years to belong to me?

The Runway of His Dreams

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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.

Dreams of Spain

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i hope my words are not
lost in translation, but
instead carried on wings of gold
across the sea,
where my dreams can take flight,
my family will prosper,
and my linguistic yearning
will meld into realistic love.

Sør Ås Bîk Clüb

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she wears a jersey
that shames us all
What will you do
it asks,
on your 70th birthday?

this on mile sixty-two
a record high day
where we pop out fully cooked
from sauna port-o-lets,
strap on our stinky helmets,
and try to beat the sun home

jerseys mock me:
sør ås bîk clüb
biker chicks
(with matching nest pics)
Ride the Rockies
and every other place
i don’t quite fit

men in drag
weave themselves up and down,
stopping to fix flats
and pose for pictures,
their exuberant rainbow
of wigs, skorts, and fishnets
bringing welcome laughter

the day begins with a sea
of hot air balloons
decorating the mountain-backed sky
and ends with free lunch,
an all-girl band,
and women who know
just where the road can take us.