how nice
as fall closes in
that we sit here with our dinner
(one last time?)
and listen
as the wind whistles
through our getting-taller trees
and the girls dive on and off
their matching swings
and the dry air tickles
our perfect-temp skin
and we can be, just be,
the perfect family.
love
Young Blood
caked in dirt as thick as frosting,
dripping in young-blooded sweat,
hand-carved spears cutting the air,
savage screams of hungry hunters,
sparkling laughter thrown into the wind,
they emerge from the forested fort.
not once in forty-eight hours
have iPodiPadMacBookCellPhone
inundated their young blood
(nor our old blood)
and without a single complaint,
we gather them together so
caked in sticky white clouds of s’mores,
campfire-smoke-ridden clothing and skin,
hot metal spears cutting into the ash,
thrilled screams of sugar highs,
sparkling laughter thrown into the stars,
they emerge from the perfect weekend.
One Stretch of Road
one stretch of road
that all my life
living here
i’ve never seen
how it curves and dips
reveals a view
of peaks and forests
of bicyclists making
their way to their next destination
(here is where the heart is)
of log cabins
and tiny towns
hidden trails
and geocaches
campgrounds tucked in
amongst aspens
and dirt roads
and i am reminded
(do i need a reminder?)
of why i am here,
why we are here
here
here
on this curvy
dipping winding road
that takes us home.
Sorrow, Love
it’s the witching hour
and here, all across town,
evils have worked their way into
the darkness engulfing us.
as quiet as a kitten snuffling
against the door, she whispers
that she is sick,
that she needs help.
with ginger hands we strip
off her sodden clothes,
and i run a washcloth under
water so hot it might sting her.
up and down her small body
i wipe away the illness, then
slip the clean nightgown over
her head in one anxious movement.
the new (old) bed in the green room awaits.
she crawls in and i whisper,
Do you want me to lie here with you?
she whimpers and nods, words lost.
i ask her to move over a bit,
but before i have slid in beside her,
she has inched her body wholly
against mine, her fingers on my face.
When you were a baby, I say,
the tears already sliding down my cheeks,
we used to share this bed every night,
just you and me, girl.
he comes in, offers to replace me,
but he can see the tracks down my cheeks,
her tiny fingers on my chin,
and without another word,
leaves us in our bed of sorrow, love.
Thinking
i may not see it through their eyes
or feel it through their legs
but the mountain lures me
and i can already sense the wind at my back
hear the spinning rubber on pavement
the thin air tightening in my lungs
and the sweet smell of pine calling me home.
it may seem crazy (and it always is with me)
but i will chase that train
climb that mountain
win that race
if only for my legs
my eyes
my heart.
with a pedal of determination
i will be just like the little blue engine
of my youth,
thinking my way to the top
thinking
thinking
thinking
all. the. way. down
to where everything tastes
better on the other side of the mountain.
Silver Circle
you may have taken it once
but now you slide it into my palm
like a shiny new silver coin
cold and sleek against the nerve endings
i clutch it with my fingertips,
pressing, hoping it will soak up
our bodies’ heat.
(we can pretend) that you really did
snatch that shining circle out of the sky
years back or months ago
it is ours now
i open my fingers and place it
on the rough center of my tongue
(despite my efforts, its purity
keeps it cool in my mouth)
you want a taste
and its light encircles us in the yard
crickets singing love songs
wind tickling the still-summer leaves
stars peeking out, competing for room
distant traffic reminding us where we are
(we are here, we are here, we are here!)
i give it to you
the silver circle that you know i love
that we love together
and with our lips open (our hearts open)
we pass our moon back and forth.
the cold seeps away, draining into the bed
of warmth, of love we have created here tonight.
August Daughters
Riona
there was a time not so long ago
when I worried you wouldn’t walk
contented as could be you sat happily
on your bottom, legs refusing to straighten
adorable, yes, but not for a mother.
how I ached for people to stop asking
for you to reach up, put your palms on a chair,
and stand.
you are four now. Four! and have tucked
stairs, one at a time, into your steps of experience,
have learned to chase after your sisters,
rarely even begging to hold my hand to steady you.
it wasn’t a mistake that I asked my friend to
draw, in perfect artistic beauty, your favorite pets
on a pair of (my all-time favorite shoes)
Converse Chuck Taylors for your birthday. Shoes.
for my youngest girl who is perfectly happy to dig in
to the hand-me-down box and pull out a “new” pair.
But no. Those shoes are yours, only yours, and on the
same day you put their magic on your feet,
your bottom in your brand-new non-baby swing,
digging your toes into the grass to make a dirt hole
(“just like under my sisters’ swings”)
you learned how to pump. all. by. yourself.
i will never know, Riona, I will never know
what will bring more tears to this mother’s eyes:
your first step at twenty months
or your legs in the air at four years old.
Isabella
Grandma reads a book to your sisters
(you hate reading).
you sit on the couch,
swing your legs,
jump up, jump down,
grab blocks,
knock them over,
dash into the kitchen,
pick up a set of toys,
jolt over the coffee table,
sing a song.
Grandma asks your sisters
to answer a question
about the book.
Before a split second has passed,
you’ve already slipped in
the answer.
“How can these girls say anything
with this one around?”
“It’s true,” you admit.
“I know everything.”
You pick up a set of plastic bugs
and bolt away,
my speed demon of elder knowledge.
Mythili
you are so proud to be
the five-almost-six-year-old
who takes steps into the school
every day after your sister,
backpack on back,
lunch in hand,
ready for kindergarten.
i watch your smile
as you tell stories about
the block towers you’ve built,
as you “read” every detail
of pictures in elaborate tales
much better than the actual words
written in the books you love.
all i see,
beneath the layers of
worldly knowledge you have
acquired upon entering school,
is my baby girl with
her baby teeth still on top.
until they loosen,
fall into an apple or Daddy’s palm,
wait in a pillow for the Tooth Fairy,
i will hold on to this smile of yours.
it is yours, yes,
but it is mine, too.
Techno Dreams
you think you can (______)
with your fancy keys
and techno dreams
but you can’t
you may be the way
but you’ll never be
the face i need
to get me through the day
you think you can (_______)
with your high speed
and techno dreams
but you can’t
you may be the way
of the future, but you’ll
never be the love i need
to get me through the day.
Degrees
it may seem simple and small
it is and it is not
what it lacks
what you cannot see
is a degree of superficiality
(tucked into corners, it pops out)
but the shining star of this show
goes into the rehearsal time.
hours of baking, dyeing, decorating,
hours of designing, painting, waterproofing,
hours of stitching, sewing, piecing
(hours of labor that brought her into the world)
hours of labor to bring her these gifts.
what you will not see
(that elsewhere you are blinded by)
is the degree of superficiality
that makes her party
(her day, her celebration,
her place on this earth)
so simple, so small, so perfect.
Circle of Light
if i could capture that circle of light
i would
a golden shadow-ridden ray of sun
that draws in the twilight
i see Lucy in its glow
(Kentucky calling me home)
with the girls (my girls)
who refuse to go to bed
i should call her
(my sister, my niece)
but how the days suck
me into their time warp
how my mind is on
teaching and teaching
loving and loving
and i forget
i forget
just how many times
i held that baby
and cried when
we parted
if i could capture that circle of light
i would
tuck it into my chest
and forget forget forget
all that is dark
and remember remember remember
this circle of light
that i hold within my palms.
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