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
dreams
One of Seventy Thousand
Dear U2,
I am one of seventy thousand. And seventy thousand more in each of a hundred cities across the globe. Your circular stage, famous by now, lights up like a firecracker as you belt out the tunes. No one has given a second thought to sitting since you entered. We are drawn up like marionettes, arms in the air, tears in our eyes, screams caught like chilling drinks of overpriced beer in our throats. You ask us to clap along and we all have the same hands. You ask up to hold up our phones and the blackened stadium reflects your every desire, the rectangular present-day lighters swaying back and forth in a melody of communion. And the wind that forced us all to pull our hoods and caps tighter, that haunted us on our long trek here, that beat back the sounds of The Fray? You took away every last wisp of a cloud and made it disappear the moment you stepped out of the tunnel, like Moses parting the Red Sea. What is your message for us, your devoted followers, harrowed from years of longing absence, as you guide us here tonight?
I am one of seventy thousand. We are a family, and your voices our parents’ so-many-times-heard songs that we have every word memorized. You don’t need to tell us the titles, we can sing them with our eyes closed. You don’t even need the 360 screen that changes from your faces to images of Burmese imprisonment to listings of events happening right now in the world. We would still stand, clap, scream, our love as intense and committed as the thirty-four years of charity you have offered the world.
I am one of seventy thousand. I stand next to my husband who surprised me with these impossible tickets. I jump up and down every time you make your rounds, my voice tight and hoarse within an hour. When you play “Elevation” and “Beautiful Day” I grin from ear to ear, those happy days later in your bandlife, those happy days later in my life when I first heard them. When you play “One” we all sing, but I sing with tears streaming down my face, reliving my freshman year of college and circling my dorm room with that song on repeat till the floor, my feet, and my tears were worn down to desert-like hollows of pain. And “When the Streets Have No Name,” “With or Without You”? You carry me back to high school, lying on the floor of the living room, one ear to the hardwood, the rhythmic soul-searching beat and the words that tear away the pieces of my broken heart, the words that take them and fling them up into the air, sew them back together, and time after time after time, Joshua Tree one two and three, the words that save me from myself, from what I might have done. My husband? All he sees are the tears, the emotion, the me he never knew.
I am one of seventy thousand. But you are singing just for me. For the soul you saved with your music, for the movement it made in my heart, for the person I am today, with or without you.
Half
if i could be half of who you are
the world would shine
an untouched wilderness of beauty
that no human could destroy
if i could be half
hearts held in hands would melt
kindness would seep through the air
like a feathery soft summer breeze
half of you
would be the full circle of the moon
lighting our way into the silver circle of dawn
the touch of newness fresh on our skin.
if i could be half of who you are
my nights would rest with seamless sleep
i would see the world for what it could be
never for what it is not.
i would be whole.
Fourteen Years
Inspired by Scotia Nightpoetry
it’s been fourteen years
since she didn’t die,
has lost all the weight
from last year’s birthing
(shed it like washing
silt from her hair)
and rests her hopes and doubts
on the same survivor shoulders
that carried her
from innocent adolescence
to harrowed adulthood
the same survivor shoulders
that fourteen years ago
all of our tears fell down upon,
all of our hopes and doubts
couldn’t hold up
as hair fell in chunks
onto the bottom of the bath,
her youth (our youth)
disappearing as quickly
as the drain
could carry it all away.
it’s been fourteen years
since she didn’t die.
between now and then
the scars on her face, neck
have shaped her into
the woman, the mother,
the researcher of life
who carries her hopes and doubts
on the same survivor shoulders
that led her into the life
her dreams once told her she could live.
Un
am i really what you say?
do i hold the key you desire
to unlock unending questions?
i wish i could be the master of your domain,
the keeper of keys that would undo
every confusion you have inside you.
but as i trudge through these questions myself,
i find myself unable to unlock my own desires,
unable to open the door that leads to dreams.
You, Me, Him, Them
this is how it would be
you, me, him, them
being all grown up
while the kids
entertain themselves.
this is how it would be
if everything became
what we believed it would
back in the day
when dreams
were still imaginable.
this is how it would be
you, me, him, them
laughing into the night
eating delectable food
remembering our past,
planning for our future.
but it’s not,
and we all know
it never will be.
it will be just you and me
like always
talking about
you, me, him, them
and trying to figure out
where our dreams went awry.
Carry
as much as i hear what you say
i will never understand why.
how in any right mind
could five rooms full of
talking-back teenagers
ever compare
to the jubilant joy
of young children
dashing through the snow?
their voices carry
like songbirds emerged in winter,
shutting out all the
whipping wind’s hollowness.
yet,
you would rather be here,
trapped in our windowless dungeon,
feeding them the lines
you’ve spouted so many times?
i’ll take my two weeks
and carry them in my mind
on my forever vacation.
for now,
i will draw a zipper across my lips
and, for once, be polite.
after all,
this year cannot carry on,
and summer’s sun,
giggling girls,
and road trips
beckon my dreams
from your harsh reality.
Eagle
you are the eagle
you see in these shoes
smiling, ready
your claws on the ball
your dreams in front of you
waiting to walk you
into the future you’ve imagined.
Pedal My Way
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.
Marinated
on giant skewers
more sword-like than knife-like
they shave off our marinated meat.
we pile it on top of our
quail eggs, turkey salami,
and marinated mushroom salads.
they pop up every thirty seconds
until our plates are smaller than our eyes
and the tastes linger, love in our mouths.
you walk with me across this city, hands in pockets.
we look at all the lights. we stop
for coffee/tea in our bookstore.
the horses are decorated with glittered hooves
and Santa bells, antlers strapped on
and Mrs. Claus at the reigns.
we step into the tower again. the Santa-hatted
door man convinces us to go downstairs.
we laugh until we cry and miss the light rail.
the crisp winter air bites at our lungs
as we walk from stop to stop. images and tastes
boil up within my blood. you keep me warm.
it is three in the morning before we’re home.
the years have marinated, because we never did this,
not once, before we had them.
now it’s more glorious than any gift you could have given me.
was it the meal, the rainbow of lights on Larimer, the show?
i will never know. only passion will i remember.
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