love

May (2012) Daughters

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Riona

with Starburst in her pocket,
girls follow behind like
needy pups.
only one knows the destination
of the gift:
the quiet child who always watches,
who often plays by herself
and becomes the coveted pet tagalong

now she pipes up,
i know who those are for–my mama,
because she loves my mama
and my mama loves Starburst.
i would like to be that unnoticed
and that necessary.

Mythili

you’re the middle child
unaware of sisters’ quirks
living in your world

Isabella

you gave me a dose
of grumpy teenage hormones
what will we do then?

Imaginary Waves

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arriving just after dawn
trees bend in the breeze
by midday we swallow sand
the beach’s beauty tainted
a hot wind to bring a new season

I could put my hand out the window
make imaginary waves
pretend that my rhythmic motions
are wings carrying me elsewhere

instead I stare into the distance
mountains masked by haze
and wait for the moment
my moment
when wind will mean more
than bent branches
and the coming of summer

Thirteen Ways of Looking at These Brownies

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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

Sailor’s Delight

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i know the old phrase that brings down the sea
each dawn my mind sees the words cross the sky
it haunts the sailors but doesn’t haunt me
the beauty of dawn is what i live by

it shares, red sky at night, sailors’ delight
though surely the pink Pike’s Peak wasn’t viewed
on each red morning with pink clouds so bright
i can feel my whole soul being renewed

it warns, red sky at morning, sailors give warning
missing the mountain peaks’ glorious blue
pink skies at night bring nothing but mourning
to craved-strength muscles that ache to break through

i hear old phrases with opposite terms
as i cycle my way to a new day
what’s beauty to me, to you is just worms
so i’ll take my colors and sail my way

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)

Letters of Idealism

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i see the sky saving sprinkles
for after my ride home,
and tears are close
to making my face fill with moisture,
not because i’m afraid,
but because the mountains,
so far, so close?
they’re touched by the clouds
i can’t quite touch,
their gray-blue beauty
my reason for loving it here

i read two letters today.
one from Frederick Douglass
to his former master,
one from a substitute teacher
to my principal.

the first? a slur of
nineteenth-century idealism
intermingled with self education,
shared amongst
twenty-first century students
whose idealism reads
in between the lines of hatred
that bleed through generations

the second? a slew of
twenty-first century truths
about our shattered system
and the bright light
that shines through
in my second home, my school,
the place where i know
the idealism can break
the mold of those same clouds
that bring beauty,
that save me from rain

April (2012) Daughters

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Riona

you speak to almost no one.
we see your shy face
hide behind your mama
as if a couple of years
were lost along your upbringing.

yet,
on stage,
your Peruvian chicken costume
in full polka-dot glory,
straw wings,
paper orange beak and all,
you are a star
as you dance front center,
the folk guitar song
giving new life
to my littlest angel.

Mythili

with focused face
looking so much
like a small adult
that i sometimes forget
you’re a child,
you create art.

a windmill in
perfect proportions
copied from a book,
the oil pastel coloring
as detailed as a
gallery painting

the Girl Scout
finger puppet
where you sit surrounded
by Daisies whose
mothers assist in every step,
you speak not a word
but work diligently
on cutting, gluing,
mastering your art.

this is your gift from God,
this is your gift to the world.

Isabella

you shine your light
wherever you go,
upon your persistent pleas
for a gecko,
a cowboy belt,
or dinner alone with mama.

you direct plays
in the backyard,
setting up obstacle courses
and circuses,
your siblings and friends
falling under your spotlight
to shine in your presence

baby sister mimics all you do,
and at first irritated,
you give in to flattery,
making a parade around the house
and reading all her favorite stories,
your brightness shining
on all you do, see, touch

Song

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you’re the favored song
buried and lost on my list
singing my sunrise

One of Those Moments

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i can’t write without the wind.
i line up my alliteration
against the dustbowl afternoon,
the first time a great gale
almost forced me to the ground

it is one of those moments when
fear forces itself into my forefront
and i could forget where i’m going.
it is just me, my pedals, my perseverance,
and the dust that clings to every pore

i push on through a series of green lights
to the man i love
all the way back fifteen years, and
i tell him today (like so many other days)
of the ride i’ve had,
and in this moment
(it is one of those moments)
with the wearying wind, the look in his eyes,
i see my future lie before me

Particles of Light

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you are the feathered flowers
that lie buried
in the hand-me-down plant.
i want to run my fingers
across the petals and
pluck out the frilly baby’s breath,
put my nose deep into
the scent
that carries me back ten years,
that carries me to the moment
those flowers became you
(a tile floor, shards of glass,
love hidden in particles of light)

this is the love
that is too soft
for others to touch,
the flowers that will never die
though the plant may fade
into the reality of life cycles,
you will still be as brightly beautiful
as the moment
i placed the stems
in the oh-so-fragile vase,
forgetting for a moment
how what breaks us
is what makes us