Home. Made.

another stressed day
just before Christmas bustle
lost to this sickness

tears fresh this morning
frozen pond glistening dawn
star-studded boathouse

guilt trailing my job
as he rushed home, two sick girls
and me? meetings, plans

she came back today
babyless, unpacking shelves
repacking her life

her despondence stung
i couldn’t leave her alone
burdened with boxes

we made plans, had lunch
I got your card, she told me
we’re not sending any

no family photo
for his first, never Christmas

(this is what i hear)

but she won’t say that,
leaves me lines to read between
your girls’ pic was great

her grief in all words
she tells of Christmas-free plans
prepared to move on

this i carry home
with oldest’s three earned awards
to my handsome chef

his job ends next week
i won’t worry who’ll nurse them
and make chicken soup

noodles fall from spoons
and girls, all better, delight
priceless remedy

now they’ll discuss me
what will he do now, and you?
i’ll have no answer

only the safety
of the home he makes for us
beyond what they see

Predictions

like a lost puppy
he waits every afternoon
hoping for some help

i enable him
wonder where his friends might be
knowing he has none

everyday struggles
of left-behind countries, wars
haunt my students’ lives

tomorrow, the same
i’ll give him the look; give in
heart too wrenched for no

i’ll carry work home
(not as heavy as his load)
pray peace will find us

Winter Break

survived another
harried nonstop dash Monday
give me winter break

if i’d a real job?
i’d go home early when sick
not pop pills to last

i’d go out to lunch
have adult conversations
away from all kids

how tiring talk
not filled with young undertones
would surely make me

instead i’ll take this:
endless work weeks, sick through some
needy happy kids

and yes, winter break
no holiday turmoil
my kids all around

Homecoming

there is no measure
for a refugee’s story
it starts where yours ends

to gather the words
thick Asian-Afro-accents?
world peace in ears

just open your heart
your eyes your gut, God your soul
and you will hear them

bleeding through parties
drives across suburban hell
and comedy works

you will hear their cry
their mothers’ and fathers’ cries
and yes, you will cry

it’s the cry that springs
open the dead ache inside
oft named white privilege

please, measure their words
bring back those crossed continents
good Lord, bring them home

Tuned

timid youngest one
belts out her favorite chorus
shines when she’s on stage

middle girl hidden
by misplaced tall fourth grader
i still hear her sing

it won’t be long now
(and i pinch back dreaded thoughts)
this will be over

my oldest, seated
not with us, but with the friends
she has gained this year

how miraculous
to see her back to herself
facing the world

i faced eleven
in this auditorium
but i didn’t sing

three girls, different tunes
wonder where notes will lead them
back to me, i hope

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Social (In)Justice

pitiful attempt
to show the world justice
ditching the walkout

after school, they beg
for classwork i can’t explain
in four short minutes

but the ones who stayed
sit, work with me for hours
tackling learning

one interrupts us
asking where the food bank is
to feed his family

i’m taken aback
a perfect student, born here
why is he hungry?

then, the Taliban:
lost her mother in Iran
falling off a horse

social injustice
propels their failed walkout day
served up after school

a dish to take home
a harder bite to swallow
as schools save us all

Piles

flooded by piles
poorly-written papers burn
insides of my eyes

my stalking student
piles breakfast, lunch, dinner
always needing help

close and lock the door
is what the experts tell me
what if that were me?

i bring home piles
that pile bags under eyes
and work in silence

quick pasta dinner
vibrant girls’ homework piles
i rush to the gym

breathe in, then breathe out
my body piles relief
yoga saves the day

School

i learned there’s no guilt
like the guilt of motherhood
my Tuesday lesson

tossing and turning
don’t turn remorse into gold
they make me feel old

whispers in the hall
worse than when i was in school
oh wait–i’m here. school.

we mock others’ pain
forgetting our own swallows
mixed up with sorrows

three deaths, intervention
wrap up semester’s longing
for life, a new life

we all want sunsets
bright red-circle memories
to bring back our youth

then we’d be in school
that captive institution
we couldn’t flee from

my Tuesday lesson:
mouth shut, sunsets disappear
mouth open, truth shines

La Casa de Bernarda Alba

for oppressed women
suicide is the answer
to questioned love

Reformation

jury’s our last hope
but freedom doesn’t ring here
let’s chime a new bell

with the sweet timber
of metallic liturgy
that brought us this dream