my legs ache from want
of the bike paths, of women on bikes,
mosquitoes and fleas now eat me alive
and i miss my mountain peaks
but
i feel i will miss this more
the gurgling babyhood smiles
the hickory-oak-taller-than-buildings forests
the relentless rivers and rains
the stick-to-the-skin heat
and everything i should hate
that i have head over heels
fallen in love with
but mostly
our family, our (second) home,
knowing the hollowness that will
sit between the hours of my days
when reality returns
and i will have to live without.
love
The Hollow of the Tree
just like the novel we have
taken turns reading
your love is as cold as the snow
(falling on cedars)
perhaps not to us
but we can feel its vacuous
chill as you glance sideways
towards them
and we wait
in the hollow of the tree
for the moment when
the snow will stop
and your love will keep us warm
July Daughters
Mythili
you are a fish
swimming all day
a proclamation against the heat
losing all of last year’s fear
and washing it away with intrepid dives
into the pool that you proudly stand up in,
reminding me that you are
almost (but not quite)
a six-year-old mermaid
whose summer of swimming
will soon end with a splash.
Isabella
at your sisters’ request
they have segregated themselves
into the far back.
most oldest daughters would love a chance
just one
to be alone
but your lip pouts its way down the interstate.
i sit beside you and flip out two auto bingo boards.
within five minutes you have won,
within fifty miles your board is almost full,
within three hours we’ve gone through
every Extreme Nature card
and your only request
is that the ride will never end.
Riona
you are an echo of your sisters’ enthusiasm
the squeals of delight
tagging just seconds behind theirs
as we pull into the hotel parking lot
you shout, “They have a fancy fountain!”
only a nanosecond after Isabella.
this i could remember most
as it happens daily.
but what will make me most proud
will be the fourteen flights of stairs
that you climbed up
one foot on one step, another on the next
(remember when you were almost two
and couldn’t even stand?)
not one time, but two in a ten-hour day,
my soon-to-be-four-year-old
advancing to the top
of a milestone I will never forget.
We Have Won
Twenty perfect pictures
A cry-free four hour drive
Thrilled squeals that last for miles
A dip in the end-of-maze pool
A local restaurant in a sea
Of red jerseys and sauce
On the way to the stadium
With an ocean of red jerseys and lust
It’s summer and the sun has set
On fourteen flights of stairs up
The arch glistens from city lights
Alongside the river of all rivers
Our room sees it and smiles with pride
For we have won, we have won,
Our team, us, them, we have won.
Statistics
temperature: 87
sunset: 8:30
ETA: 8:52
humidity: 70
miles: 5.2
mosquitoes: 1.1 million
times down the slide: 100
gulps of Gatorade: 50
cars waiting to pass: 10
songs on the iPod: 40
streetlights lighting up: 11
runners speeding past: 2
girls on a bike: 4
love: 100%
It Isn’t Enough
it isn’t enough to be ten feet from
the door of our tent to the shore of the lake,
to paddle out into the cove side by side
for a miniature version of a date
it isn’t enough to swim with three girls
in ring-around-the-rosy circles into the night,
the campfire’s afterglow and the Milky Way
lighting their way into the warmth of their beds.
it isn’t enough to stay for one summer
because it could never capture our midnight swim,
our skinny-dipped rekindling after a week’s absence,
the fact that we haven’t lived,
we have never lived,
until the deep-down,
sparkling starlit beauty
of this moment in Kentucky.
Follow the Pavement Black
after five and a half years of bodily sacrifice
i have taken a bite out of a different slice
strange it is to follow the pavement black
but this is the only way to get my body back
it’s not the baby belly (though it may seem)
but about my dignity, my self esteem
for them i gave scarred skin, life, milk
and now the road beckons with its silk
i follow it wherever my legs desire
as in high school when i was on fire
it saves me just as much as it did then
reminding me how to be myself again.
Silent Guidance
it is not for this view of farms
with old wooden barns
in the early mist of morning
that i rise early and ride
(though it could be)
it is not for the excitement
of a road I’ve never traveled
its twists and turns leading me
into a maze of forests and fields
(though it could be)
it is not for the muscles in
my legs that have tightened
into circular mounds of strength,
carrying me endlessly without pain
(though it could be)
it is for them, three souls lined up
to lead a life that they will choose,
and in my silent guidance they will see
that there are many roads, many paths,
that will lead each of them to happiness.
Watching from a Window
Watching from a window
Any voyeur can see your life
(the emanating love that
Masks the secretive sadness)
But i am not a voyeur, only a lonely
Lost soul (aren’t we all?) and
I can see it hidden behind this
Picture-window view (between the lines)
Because i have been inside your soul
(though currently an outcast) and still recall
The time when you and I were innocent schoolgirls,
Watching from a window how we pictured the world.
Here
here
where the trees mask the sun
here
where the deer darts across
here
where the pavement ends
here
where i have my heart.
i can’t take an adequate photo
so i won’t attempt to
but as my best friend
rests her tires on the red dirt
(am i in my native land,
surrounded by air so thick
with moisture that it pops
out of my pores?)
i know that for today,
this moment,
this ride,
no matter how many miles
lie between
here
and
there
i will always have
you here with me.
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