i’ll dream in cycles
flowered spinning summer ride
and forget my stress
A Ride in the Park
i’ll dream in cycles
flowered spinning summer ride
and forget my stress
motherhood
Endlessly
with golden eyelashes he sleeps
after telling the Martian story
to which only Mythili would listen
black and dark makeup-less beauty
that none of us can understand,
the one who said three months back
that she’s most like me
(all i thought of were the endlessly
imaginative doll stories, and how i hated
dolls) only to realize that
my most responsible proactive middle child
had me pegged
and how can i sum up an August Friday?
it would begin with carrying
an ever-bending begonia
through three hallways
and six sets of stairs
my endlessly flamboyant classroom colleague
holding the admin parking door open
to ask
why are women so needy?
is this why i don’t like them?
before the sun has even completely
emerged from Colorado clouds
it would end with pumpkin pie
burning up my no-a/c house
and my baby’s hands weaving
bits of crust
over her apple pie dream
as expertly as she did at age three
when Thanksgiving meant more to me
than any other holiday
in the middle, with my middle child?
school posters and schedule nightmares,
the signage of every teacher,
where i walk into that school
and every capillary in my body
is pumping blood for students
i haven’t even met
a meeting, a speech that makes me
want to hug my enemy
and wish that last year
could have been mine
ours
and the end-of-day email
blasting me
in ALL CAPS
for putting my students first
even if HE WOULDN’T
Mythili, Mythili, Mythili
who was born a writer like me
a crone before her time
whose head turned towards me on day two
how could i not know
after the
twin-in-looks-forever-defiant-Izzy
and
shy-as-a-cactus-in-December Riona
how could i not see myself in her?
the pie is in the oven
and 24 people will populate
the space between an 1864 ditch
and the playground of my youth
before i can even blink
my baby has turned 8
and we will have pie.
apple. lattice top composed
by nothing-like-me Riona.
pumpkin. requested by
my twin, Mythili.
whipped cream. to spray
in mouth of endlessly-flamboyant Isabella.
tomorrow? we will party in the park,
forget that there’s no cake.
or that schedules aren’t students.
and remember how much,
how painfully much,
we love each other.
Teacher-Mother Pie
back to old routines
information overload
do as i say, not…
day’s success stories
vary, depending on view
mine: crosses they’ll bear
now for new nightmares
first-day jitters springing up
fan fires sun’s laugh
bring on my Friday:
arrange, plan, copy, paste, bake:
teacher-mother pie
always a puzzle
time for nothing but my kids
theirs and mine: ours
A Gift, a Heartbreak
a gift, to turn eight
the loving card, matching clothes
doll’s, girl’s paradise
with double pancakes
and grandmother surprises
she lights up the world
adventure downtown
homemade pizza by Daddy
she spoils us all
heartbreak, to turn eight
that many years past my last
my baby, always
Laundry of Life
the morning breakdown:
poles, bags, pans, miracle trunk
pack our memories
quick stop for short hike
pass waterfall, aim higher
switchback to our view
it is a fine sight:
family of five, swollen legs
lake steals horizon
five showers, three loads
phone calls, dishes, and errands
aprés camp bed? YES!!
Life’s a Rented Dream
silver blades cut grass
mad dash for registration
test Ukrainian
new face with bright smile
knows his English isn’t great
how will he survive?
miracle trunk packed
in temporary dream car
life’s a rented dream
reservation lost
we take his lucky number
campsite without view
girls venture for joy
find una buena vista
wood-filled arms return
though we lack lake view
the mountaintop appeases
so rocky, this life
that makes our Friday
mow, pack, register, test, camp
obligations, loves
Prepubescent Exploration
innocent zoo trip
obscene scene not to be seen
look, he has two trunks!
saved by water show
he forgets his bold catwalk
trainer blames teen angst
stories of summer
popcorn, snow cones, puberty?
the birds and the bees
better lesson now:
friends by day’s end, sharing slurps
two trunks forgotten
Joy Among Us
a flat starts the day
with a little pump, i ride
hills, mountains: progress
web site down, ends work
why not take the dry cleaning?
dead car battery
bored girls seek street friends
they’re at camp, then tutoring
where is their summer?
then, a text invite:
pool party, later denied
(for members only)
embarrassed, we leave
without the key to rich friends
our small house fills up
this after cold talk
screaming drive, snatching pillow
the girls unaware
of how i haiku
remnants of a hollow day
door shut, him sleeping
but before closed doors?
they street-danced on rollerblades
still making the best
i close itchy eyes
view the world through young faces
all i see is joy
The End
sunny day at end
after a stormy summer
last pool before school
Big Brother Wins
It’s time to say goodbye. I tried editing. Removing posts. I started with the word drink as my post searcher.
Twenty-eight posts. (I might mention that I have 1,058 posts, the rest of which do not contain this word, but would it matter?)
During my search, I read about the beauty of my girls on a glorious Sunday. Of parties I’d had a great time at. Of weekend joy and love. Of coworkers having a moment of happiness after work.
And, gasp, about that awful thing that almost everyone I know does after work, but I’m not allowed to do since I’m a teacher.
This is one of the most frightening novels I’ve ever read. It bothered me so much when I read it, but even more now. I feel I share this room with Winston:
For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do. (1.1.12)
I sit here now in my living room in Cartagena, Spain. I have spent the greater part of two weeks sharpening my résumé, rewriting my cover letter, and completing online applications so that I can bring my family home.
They are counting on me. Trusting me. Just as they did a year ago when I told them we were coming here.
I cannot let this writing, soul-fed, heartbreaking, ever-too-honest writing, keep me from providing for my family.
And so, just as Winston faced his biggest fear of rats, took his sip of ever-bitter gin and ended the novel with, “I love Big Brother,” I am going to have to concede.
Big Brother wins. I am taking down my blog. And with it, so many pieces of my heart that it will never beat quite the same again.
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