love

Christmastime Glitter

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it could be the lights
twinkling like miniatures stars
or the people walking
hand in hand,
or the horses’ hooves
that sparkle
in Christmastime glitter

or it could be
the three little girls
in footed pajamas
covered in heavy coats,
fleecy hats, and snow boots,
drawing attention
from passersby
about our new fashion trend.

it could be the
fresh baked zucchini cake
with sprinkly cream cheese frosting,
the hot eggnog latte,
the grasshopper chocolate,
that ride down into our stomachs
on a warm sled of delectability.

whatever it is,
the lights, the girls, the food,
it is home, city, love.

Love, Hate

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who you see here tonight?
it’s the me he dislikes
how i laugh, laugh, laugh
exposing everything
in my (their) disbelief

it’s a standing joke now
(gift card to prove it)
and i will smile all the way
until tomorrow

carrying her hands on my hands
her eyes on my eyes
how i see what others do not
how i know what others do not

everything, everything exposed
just like that night in the car
when it was so, so, beautifully orgasmic

and i swallowed it whole
my love
i swallowed the cool air
the bitter whiskey
the smooth rum
the cream cheese

because it is all a part
of the here and now,
the then
the me whom i love
and hate
whom i love
and hate.

Pedal My Way

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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

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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.

The Market

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it’s still here
this place i knew
where last i came
under these same sparkling
rays of light
as a teenager with friends
where we bought coffee
and chocolate
shipped in from Vermont
where we sat in
these same heart-shaped
wire-backed
uncomfortable wooden chairs
and laughed and laughed
and walked around
looking at expensive
hot cocoas
and liberal media magazines,
the same ones
that line the shelves this evening,
beer and dinner in our stomachs,
i fall in love all over again.

Writing My Bike

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it came to me in the summer.
Writing My Bike:
this should be the name of my new blog.
will i only write when i ride?
will i only ride when i write?

winter’s creeping in
with bitter cold mornings
that make my pedals run stiffly,
my layered legs tight with frost,
my mittened hands gripping
the first wisps of light on early mornings.

He may try, but Jack Frost can’t deter me.
i’ll be writing my bike to the top
of a mountain in May (racing a train),
and i need these legs to pedal me
through everything that will come
between now and then.

November Daughters

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Mythili

Freshly six, your latest
obsessions are your new Zhu Zhu
and the Tangled doll
with hair so long
I had to braid it on day one.
Just like when you were two,
you guard your possessions
as fiercely as a new mother,
holding them close to your chest
on all adventures, theirs and yours.
A year from now, what will you love most?
Will you have abandoned these items
for the latest movie character,
or have given in to your love of books,
your soon-to-be expert knowledge of words?
As I say whenever you ask me a question
that I’m not so sure of an answer to
(my response, in your eyes, a yes),
we’ll see.

Riona

With a long line,
a tiny half circle attached,
a diagonal drawn like a
ray of light across the page,
you have written the first
letter of your name. You ask
for more, and I feed them to you.
You swallow them up and
regurgitate the connected-dot i,
the perfect o, the upside-down n,
and the little a, a circle and tail.
And just as you are not quite sure
how to make the letters just right,
I am not quite sure how I am
going to stand here and watch you grow.

Isabella

Fifty-four pounds, almost half my weight,
you still ask me to carry you.
I reach around your skinny waist
and hoist you up, your arms
flailing wildly (impossible
for you to be still, even now)
as we move into your bedroom.
A kiss good night, a button on the iPod,
and you will listen to the same song tonight,
on repeat, that has played for six months.
I imagine your wedding day,
your groom picking you up in a dance.
Will you play this song, remember its waltz?
Or will I be the only one singing,
“Cantaremos alto, cantaremos bajo,”
until my heart can go neither high nor low,
but stay as neutral as your weight in my arms allows.

Thanksgiving

/ lovizmytrio / Leave a comment

i am better at this
just as you taught me
hand over hand
hand over arm
hand on hand
hand on arm

and now you?
calm as a summer breeze
in the midst of frigid temps
cradling them
in the layers of love
that were missing
from my childhood.

instead i’ll stand here
mashing my angst into potatoes
dicing up boiled eggs
slicing perfect candied yams
doing everything you taught me
and more.

the table is set.
the kitchen is spotless.
my children are loved.
and i should be so thankful
that i know how to do
all that i know how to do.

Muse

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just as we found our muse
young as youth with words would allow
you have crept back into my life
and reminded me of passion.

it may dissipate like water
evaporating onto the lid of a pan
but the lid, the lid is solid
and will gather up the drops

release them back to where they belong
back to you, to me, to the youth
we all have within us, the words
escaping from our passionate mouths

like butterflies emerging from the chrysalis
reborn into the enthralling joy
that we once knew, that we will always have
with words, with words, with our muse.

The Theatre

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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.