love

Magma

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i don’t want to be this parent
but sometimes the anger boils up
and overflows, spewing ash
that blocks my love for you

it’s still there (the love), hot
magma in the depths of my
hollowed out mountain, but
it’s a slow and heavy river.

you are asleep by the time
the ash settles, gray streaks
of its tiny particles on your cheeks,
and i will not wake you.

the clouds are slow and heavy at dawn,
mimicking my magma as you wake
and i take you into the hollow,
wrapping you in the warmth of my love.

Baggage

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what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
four spinning wheels for
simple maneuvering in and out of doors,
a handle that slid up and down with the
smooth ease of young love,
straps for easy carrying on the back
(thickly padded, covered in felt)

nothing like the heavy sets of mismatched
baggage, beaten from too many travels,
wheelless and torn, strapless and with
handles that break out blisters on palms,
identifiable only by their massive weight,
their inability to fit easily into anyone’s trunk,
that everyone else, now older,
carries with them into relationships.

what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
inside it we rolled up our
running socks, fuzzy pajamas,
pants for every season, swimsuits and gloves,
and packed ourselves a trip that would
far surpass the one that the people
around us told us not to take.

Mouth

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the same one that kisses
each daughter’s cheek
and whispers, “I love you”
a thousand times a week

the lips that open and close
over organically local food
and delectable chocolate
that brings on the best mood

the crooked and aging teeth
that bare themselves in grins
filled with laughter and love
and inglorious sins

this mouth is surely sore with vice
though can just as easily love
because what I say is who I am
not just who you were thinking of.

What He Does

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What he does if you need to know
(really? it’s been five years)
is wake up one morning girl
and two obstinately not-morning girls
arguing with them to
go to the bathroom, get dressed,
eat breakfast, brush teeth,
and get out the door
before most people have left for work.

Alone, because I have usually
left already to enjoy a bike ride to school
(something he allows me to do
every day if I want, without question)
and even if they don’t want to do
any of it, with his patient words,
his no-nonsense attitude,
he convinces them to obey.

What next? You’d be amazed.
Takes Mythili back and forth
to preschool, setting timers for
snack and show-and-tell reminders,
grocery shopping with Riona in tow,
plans a menu that is healthy
(and that they’ll all eat, and that
we can afford), cooks and does dishes,
sets out my morning coffee and oatmeal,
cleans the house top to bottom every Friday,
(have you ever seen Dad use a vacuum?)
budgets and pays all our bills,
takes the girls to the park,
the zoo, the museum,
sets up play dates
and manages homework.

All without one critical word,
with the sensitive nurturing
every child needs and deserves,
all so that our evenings are calm,
relaxed, child-filled (not errand-filled),
so that we have a home, not a house.

What does he do, you ask?
Have you not seen our spotless home,
tasted our delectable dinners,
thrived on his technological advice,
and witnessed firsthand those
small arms reaching out for Daddy?

Let me apologize.
Perhaps you have not been blinded by love,
or perhaps in your narrow world of
work, work, work,
you have forgotten (or never knew)
what a happy family,
a perfect husband,
looks like.

April Daughters

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Isabella

with your Easter dress
and worn-out sneakers,
you carry yourself up the mountain
running so far in front
that you become a black crow
hidden among the scrub oaks,
waiting at the top on the bench
to announce to us all
the view that has brought us here,
proud of your strong legs,
your interminable energy,
your love for the outdoors.

Mythili

sitting at the middle school musical,
finger in mouth,
blankey in palm,
you turn to me and whisper,
“Is this the last song?” (your
ever polite mode of complaint)
and as we walk down the steps to leave,
I ask you how you enjoyed it.
Your reply: “That was SO long.”
(your ever polite mode of complaint)
We get to the car and you are asleep
before I have pulled away from the parking lot.

Riona

what you need
includes a simple list:
water
a wet rag to wipe your own face
getting pushed on the swing
(at least once a day)
cuddling on the couch
stories that have flaps
(or look-and-finds)
bread (so good that
it will keep you from
eating your dinner)
someone to open the white door
(you have figured out the screen door)
and
three blankets every night
(all made especially for you, my love).

In This Moment

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in this moment

I can find the pace I need to get me there stronger
Mythili can “read” a whole page in her elaborate story
Riona can say “I wuv you” seven times
Isabella can brush her top teeth by herself

and someone on the other side of the world
or right across town
is giving birth to a perfectly healthy baby
while another lost soul is pointing a gun to his head

in this moment

I can hear Alanis Morisette motivating my pedals
my students can see twenty pictures on Google
of the cedar trees they’ve never heard of
the teachers can track me down for brownies

and someone right across town
or on the other side of the world
is pounding a woman’s skull into the drywall,
while another is handing a ten-year-old his first pair of shoes.

in this moment

I will live
I will love
I will remember what I have
what we all have
(somewhere within us)

Baby Number One

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standing next to my bike
(baby number one)
just before sunrise
I adjust the straps on the saddlebag
and ask myself why I
didn’t pack gloves

the door clicks open
swings shut
forcing my heart rate to
race as if I’ve already begun
the uphill ride

my breath spills out
in gray wisps of
below freezing air as
I take a step around the corner
to see what has materialized

there she stands
barefoot in
her polar bear purple pajamas
her fuzzy morning braids
dangling on either side of her
grinning face, her arms out

“I came to say good-bye.”
I reach for my should-be-asleep
daughter, wrapping my warmth
around her shivering skin,
my always-a-morning-person girl,
my baby number one.

Catch Me a Moon

/ lovizmytrio / 1 Comment

catch me a moon once meant
fix my broken heart
(at sixteen, when in pieces
my heart’s only remedy were
the silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon now means
give me a moment
(a moment to myself, to bike,
to run, to remedy stress
with silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon was a story
I wrote (and memorized,
reciting its words as I tackled
giant hills on my way to school
under silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon is a poem
I write (holding my mended heart
as I rediscover the well-lit path
that will carry me—carry all of us—
as we reach for silver splashes of light.

Every Moment

/ lovizmytrio / 2 Comments

I remember nights without sleep
and cries without consolation
diaper bags and strollers a must
for even the simplest outings

now their once-wispy hair is
tied back in tight braids and
their cries are aimed at each other
with bitter words to match.

a blur it’s been, baby years gone,
relinquished first to toddlerhood
and now we’re full-on childhood
their lives zipping by me

before I can even sit on the swing
with their daddy and reminisce
the time that is happening now,
they will be all grown up.

(I will remember this when I
hold my hand to a feverish forehead,
when they pitch a fit and act their age,
when I think every moment is too much)
because every. moment. counts.

Black Bicycle Tires

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At sixteen
(almost seventeen)
I wrote in my journal:
“Busiest street in the city
a solid two days in a row
you crossed it in between
rushes of cars, slow uphill
in gray breath-spilling morning,
heated gasps down the slope in the afternoon.

‘God is sending me miracles!’
you scream out, because
nothing moves as quickly
as black bicycle tires
when it’s almost summer.”

At thirty-one
(almost thirty two),
I write in my journal:
“Silver or magenta,
mountain or road,
black bicycle tires
erase the pain
before and behind me,
a majestic blur of
rubber on pavement,
a remedy for adolescence,
adulthood,
life.