email daughter’s teacher
who doesn’t know how to read
pick up nuts
because i’m going crazy
learn Castilian Spanish
so i can speak to roommates
intervene in group work
for groups who won’t work
teach daughter to read
because schools don’t work
sit in meetings that don’t apply to me
so i can’t do my work
ride my bike to work
so i can see the moonset/sunrise
try to remember
that i cannot
make a list
that will quite
change the way the world works
humanity
Journal: September 11, 2001
Dear Brittany, Tuesday, September 11, 2001 8:30 p.m.
I just keep hearing it. A line from a movie? A speech from a long-dead political leader? Or a description, so precise, so harsh, so true of this very day in the history of the world.
“A day that will live in infamy.”
I don’t even know where to begin. Should I repeat, in this journal, the story that I’ve heard from 20 journalists, seen video and photos of over 100 times, repeated in over 100 ways? Or, when I look back at this entry years from now, perhaps as a mother, a grandmother, a dying old woman, will the date alone strike a chord and bring back the terror of this day?
Will I be able to look back, many years from now, or will this journal be ashes in the rubble remaining from days of nuclear warfare?
I face the same questions as everyone else; the questions I ask my students to answer every time they read a story or write a paper: Who? What? Where? When?
WHY?
HOW?
Are these the keys to good writing, or unanswerable interrogations about our country, our world, our humanity?
No, I cannot answer today; maybe not ever. I stare blankly at the muted screen, its words that so quickly skid across the bottom, blurry to my tired eyes. I can’t listen anymore. I look at the seriousness of the journalists’ faces, the grave, reserved anxiety, unable to keep my thoughts on track. What track? Where am I going? Where are we going? The questions again, endless, like the questions you ask yourself when you’re reading a great story.
Only, this isn’t a story.
–KMV
Teach
if eighty-five percent
of EVERYONE
actually did what they
were supposed to do
then we wouldn’t need
pay for performance.
we could just…
teach.
what a concept.
Closed Eyes
with closed eyes we see the world
blanketed by senseless screens
absent of real words
imagery we can’t understand
with closed eyes the world sees us
hidden behind doors
lost from human contact
connections we can’t define
with closed eyes we see the world
painted with desire
immersed in ourselves
love we cannot celebrate
Twisted Logic
how can i explain
the twisted logic
she openly verbalizes
as we sift through photos
of smoke and ash?
she will only see (one day)
perfect reflection pools,
beams of light calling to heaven,
beautiful bright buildings
standing like shadows
in place of what was lost.
she will not remember
(or pull back tears as i do),
but look into the world
with the hope that
the twisted logic of those ‘pilots’
is left behind with the rubble
they wrapped in a flag and carried home.
Human Trees
trees are like humans
she says
they take forever to grow
they start small
when they’re grownups
they don’t grow anymore
they stay in one place
i want to tell her
they’re trapped by roots
taunted by wind
pelted with precipitation
they never stop growing
you’re right
i say instead
knowing that
how she sees the world
could change by morning
and i should cherish
how she sees it today.
Blinded by Blue
i can’t see
the environmental impact
of the roads
ski areas
and mines along the way.
only the blue sky
long absent
longingly awaited
the sun hot on my skin
waterfalls pouring
from every crevice
of Rocky Mountain rock
and snow still standing
obstinately against all predictions.
i will take this pain in my muscles
to bed with me
as i listen to the roaring river
and try to remember
this perfect planet
we’re destroying
but for now
for today
i am blinded by blue.
Cloud
i want to be outside of the cloud,
to see the silvery circle of sun
touching the beauteous palm of Earth,
to float above everything below me,
to let the raindrops fall from my wisps
of Heaven-sent dewy collections,
to release within my realm of realization
every bit of darkness that keeps me
here inside this churlishly cold cloud.
The Theatre
We stand in tights, leggings, skirts,
a tie and jacket, dolled up as much as
our fellow theatre-goers
waiting for the train.
Our breaths form miniature clouds
as they enter the humid night air.
We shuffle our feet, clap our hands,
pull up our hoods, rejoice at the lights
of the train curving around the tracks.
Everyone says, How old are they?
Going to the theatre? Shrek tonight?
Beautiful girls, beautiful, beautiful girls.
As we stand clutching the pole, no room.
It couldn’t be better. The pictures we took
(soon to be Christmas cards), the lipstick
now smearing across their cheeks,
the laugh-your-ass-off musical of our dreams.
Four, six, almost eight, I tell them.
They say it only gets better. But how can it
be better than this? Dinner at a local restaurant,
riding the train downtown, the theatre,
three little, little girls as proud as new parents?
We’ll see. For now, I take their tiny hands in mine,
dash through the tunnel with lights that
ring at their anxious pats, their pink jackets
and polka-dot tights reminding me of the youth
we all have within us, the youth, the love we crave.
Mole
you are a cancerous mole
on otherwise flawless skin
appearing from nowhere
but settling in with a vicious sting
as if you have always belonged.
perhaps you have been there
hiding beneath scabs and
thin strands of golden hair,
waiting in the depths of tissue
to release your venom.
now you haunt my fingers
as they try to dance across
the once-smooth place you’ve
chosen to poison. but i know
that you won’t be here long.
i swallow the thought of your release
with these pills of gratitude
that i have purchased without you knowing.
you may have sneaked into my life,
but your exit will be quick and painless.
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