colors of rainbow
in a place i never go
priceless gifts abound
Shopping
colors of rainbow
in a place i never go
priceless gifts abound
kindness
Midday
i carried three coffees
into work.
it was midday.
i had to walk around front,
give the guard a sheepish grin
(did he know i didn’t sign out,
that i just drove sixty miles
to drop off a test? did it matter?)
snow came down in flustered flurries,
sticky and wet on grimy windshield,
not enough to slow me down or make me smile
i was rushed and i was right
as i stood waiting
for incompetency to finish
erasing errant bubbles on
directions she didn’t listen to
i placed the drinks on desks,
was handed back tearful smiles
that carried my squeaky heels
down the hallway
to the next moment of time
that would not be mine,
that would never be mine,
and it didn’t matter–
i’d made one small part of the day
a bit more bearable.
Grateful Grin and All
the sun has set in cloudville, but
on the drive home the clouds clear,
a starlit sky to bring in Santa,
who sits up setting up a bicycle
and filling stockings with little girl joys.
the clock ticks on. he is
as silent as the sacred night
and i know (i know)
he will let my tears slide
into the passenger’s view
of the endless drive.
they awaken (not too early)
and my unassuming five-year-old
overlooks the bicycle beside the tree,
pointing instead, grateful grin and all,
to the green Christmas tree Peeps,
the simplest gift of gratitude
that i ache to gather in my arms.
(if i could love)
if i could have for one moment
the beautiful temperament
she came into the world with,
the sadness surrounding my heart
would melt away with the first bite
of overly sweetened marshmallow.
Estamos Bien
mañana tenemos el
Acción de Día de Gracias tercera
he stands in an airport
with laughter at the back of his voice,
the emotion so close to tears
that they sit waiting
on the edges of my lids
estamos bien.
tenemos una avión mañana por la mañana
because we are all well
with them in our midst–
so un-American to be grateful
for a night longer,
a missed flight,
a smile that we’ve all tucked away
inside ourselves
(that he fishes out
as easily as catching
tadpoles on a hot June day)
Thanksgiving dos,
we sit and share thanks:
one of the four girls
mentions her extra parents
(the highlight of the evening)
i bring forth my Spaniards
(absent)
but with an ever-present influence
on every thought i have,
on every emotion that has crossed my heart
in the four short months
that i have made them mine
Isabella gives me the look
as if i could forget
the reason we are all gathered,
for without these four girls,
none of this happiness
could float in the room
carrying the
feliz día de los padres
mylar balloon
up to the ceiling,
zhuzhu pet attached,
miracle in place
(can you see it?)
and the Spaniards?
they would live somewhere else,
and our surrealistic vision
of tomorrow
would be so.
real.
so.
unimaginative.
instead?
i hear him laugh
about fumando el toro,
the night in the airport
and our third,
and final,
Thanksgiving meal.
Película
i send my camera
zoomed in and out
around our table of twelve
their words slip
like bubbles from their tongues
escaping into the heat
popping before i can catch them
drinks go to lips
songs emerge as naturally
as water flowing from the mountains
they have no idea
they are being filmed
sleep pushes at my eyelids
as the Taiwanese pasta
settles in my belly
but i could stay here forever
listening to the language
i crave to understand
immersing myself in the people
whose home i’ll never know
it is like a dream really
and i pinch myself awake
so full of life
they are so full of life
that no language
could define
just what my video
will never capture
The Cost of These Brownies
handwritten prices
on the grocery list
categorizing ingredients,
a spouse’s scrupulous pen
(cocoa: $2.76
chocolate chips: $2.38
it goes on)
several summer nightmares,
a bitter blog post,
and the hollowness
that can only come
with the absence of words
their bright faces
and innocent remarks,
the commentary carried
down the corridor,
begging for more
the bland baked cakes
from someone’s mix
hand in hand with
Friday’s sacred sweet desire
all the times
that can’t be added up
with calculators
of when they made a day,
saved a life,
or satisfied a fix
the small hands
that crack the eggs,
the small voice
that recites the recipe,
reminding me
once again
that from first bite
to last,
i am giving a taste
of chocolate
with an immeasurable price.
August (2011) Daughters
Riona
Five. FIVE. five…
you wear the pink taffeta dress
(pattern handed down
for fifty years)
a gathered waste,
scalloped pockets and sleeves,
plastic pearls to complete the couture.
you jump in and out of fountains,
climb plastic playground steps,
pretend with perfect attitude
(that encompasses all you are)
to blow the absent candles from your cake
we move from playing with new gifts
on hardwood (you offer me a pillow)
to party number two, where
you surround yourself with
breaking-down children and ask
only that i roast you a marshmallow
in the lightning-flash sky
and circle of warmth
you are five.
you dash to the car in the
pitch-black, too-far-from-city night,
your row of new lip balms in palm,
and before you will sleep,
you divide them evenly amongst sisters,
your generous heart more beautiful
than your perfect pink taffeta dress.
Mythili
it’s been a year, and
baby teeth are gone,
replaced by no-finger-sucking
straight white incisors
that have sent Blankey
to a closeted grave
with their grown-up appearance.
you have school friends now
who you won’t let go.
you know the way down the corridors,
will soon show baby sister,
and, as always,
you speak quite frankly
about the condition of your classroom,
the behavior of other students,
and your ability to stay on task.
how could these two adult teeth
bring deeper wisdom
to the little girl
who, from birth,
could already see the world
in a light
the rest of us can’t see?
Isabella
i find pictures of you
at five, six,
(pudgy cheeks and tiny teeth)
and look into your pale hazels,
your over-freckled cheeks,
hold you against me,
your head now at my shoulder,
and i know
i know
(though i’m afraid to write it now)
you are no longer a little girl.
you are my oldest,
will always be first,
will always move from one stage
to another before them,
will be the one to induce the most fear,
the most intense kind of love,
a kind i cannot describe here
(or to them)
one that is shared from those
moments in our babymoon
to those moments now when
you understand what they don’t,
when you give me the look
a reflection of my expression,
you, a shadow of me
who stands at my shoulder,
ready to grow.
Mixer
i cannot replicate the complex crest
nor mimic la bandera de España.
i cannot be the arms of your mother
or speak coherently her tongue.
i can only pour in the ingredients,
spin the mixer of all we desire,
and place before you in red and yellow
everything your presence means to me.
i cannot say in words what the cake will tell
in so many sweet remembrances,
so many little tastes that sparkle
like the teardrops in the corners of her eyes.
Sunshine
With a toddler and baby in tow,
we walked our oldest to her first day,
the door open to your preschool room
lit up with sunshine shelves of toys.
You introduced yourselves to us
as Dee Dee and Helene, to the kids
as Ms. Teddy Bear and Ms. Jelly Bean,
quick-to-be-famous names in our ears.
For years our girls brought home
button families, clothesline crafts,
Dr. Dino, and homemade, hand-guided
projects to decorate our hearts.
Time has ticked away the tininess
of the baby you give back to us now,
her Silly Award another reminder
of all that has come to an end.
You will have an endless stream
of four-year-olds to keep the youth
and sunshine smiles on your faces,
but us? It will be just this: a memory.
A memory of their first school experience
that, as parents, perhaps we’ll recall
better than them, your warmth and love
the sunshine that will guide them through the next door.
At Fourteen
For Jim(my)
i picture you at fourteen
gangly and awkward
bottlebottomed glasses
curly close-cut locks
riding your bike across the bridge
wearing the same three outfits
all summer long
diving into the swimming pool
down the block
and playing right along
with our nine-
and eleven-year-old games
i was in love.
it didn’t matter that you were my cousin
almost six years older
and lived across the country.
you were nice to me
made me feel at home
in that strange and cavernous house
where Grandpa and Grandma
ordered KFC
and watched TV all day
instead of fixing decent food
or paying attention to us.
you rode across the
highway bicycle bridge
and entertained us every day
and carried me on the back
of your dirt bike
on our camping trip
and talked and talked and talked
like no one else in the family would.
i still remember those words
those cyclical wheels
that sent my mind spinning
and the smile you carried
through all that was dark,
the fourteen-year-old boy
who redefined family
in my little girl eyes.
Step Write Up 