motherhood

Four Flags

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my day is determined
by four flags
whipping a wayward wind
toward the horizon
or reluctantly at rest
like limp rags,
their staunch appearance
a reminder of resistance.

i pedal past,
search for meaning.
will they tell me how my day will be?
in order,
in darkness
they loom before me,
first at the sin shop
lined with gluttonous cars,
then two in a row
miles down the road,
spotlighted in glory
on the hilltop of wealth,
and at last at the great institution,
lit up by a just-rising sun
awaiting my timed arrival.

they tell me if i’m crazy
(yes! the wind is your enemy today!)
remind me of my strength
(you made it! half a mile to go!)
predict my future
(it’s a long road ahead!)

but
there are no words
there is no wind
i have no muscles
that can swallow
all the hidden pain
that those wind-whipped flags
endure in their threadbare stance
as they tell me the truth in
the only way my heart will hear it.

A Star is Born

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don’t hold her back
my sister tells me
knowing how her spirit was crushed
and i am twisted between
what i think is right
what i know is wrong
wondering where the manual is
knowing there isn’t one.

just like the quilt
i cross-stitched over my pregnant belly
the words
A Star is Born
she leads them on limitless adventures
hours of imaginative play
shining so brightly
that nothing i say or do
could possibly quench the light.

i just can’t be
the mother i was taught to be
and though her vibrancy
twists at strings of guilt within me
it is me
and i will have to love her
for the child she is,
the child i was never able to be.

Peaks

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if i could take those peaks,
the rays of sunlight streaming,
snatch them up from my desktop pic,
from the hands that formed them

if i could have the magical hands
that shaped this imperfect world
then perhaps i could put in perspective
the shame that hovers darker than clouds,
blocks those rays from reaching my heart.

but i can’t. i’m not God, nor have the magic
that you so desire, that seeps out of her eyes
with remorse for my harsh words, her unveiling,
that sends you to bed with night two of anguish.

if i could take those peaks,
those rays of sunlight in my hands,
i would wash our sins with the elevated air,
reshape who you are in my eyes,
release the shame from both of our souls.

My Dear

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i wish i could move my fingers
across the banjo with
the flair
the spin
the genius
the beautiful British accent
the perfection
the speed

but i can’t.
i can only spin these tires
new shoes clipped in
and ride until my breath escapes me
and try to remember
what i’m good at

which isn’t much,
being the mother of
that student,
the talk-about-in-teachers’-lounge
grumble-about-apathetic-parents
wish-you-didn’t-have-in-your-class
student

at least i can pretend to sing
like Mumford & Sons
and admit
I REALLY FUCKED IT UP THIS TIME,
DIDN’T I, MY DEAR??

March (2011) Daughters

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Riona

i will not forget these moments:
your tea party picnic
Charlotte and all
plastic food eaten
and regurgitated for later.

your thrill at holding the yoke
carrying buckets of water from well
being four and a half years
full of smiles.

your dances/songs
where you spin on sticky bare feet
and intertwine your love for me
with utterances of sisterly annoyances.

your hands held defiantly high
when they try to mock you:
I AM ONLY FOUR
in beauteous indignation.

Mythili

you’ve been duped.
i couldn’t tell you
couldn’t find the words
for me taking a day off
driving you to the dentist
forcing you to sit in the chair.

you sit silent as a stone
as the laughing gas
is put like clown’s nose
into your lungs.
they say how good you are
again and again.

he cuts into your gums
and i watch as your fists clench,
but not a tear streaks down,
not a grumble or whine.

we move to the car,
plastic jewelry prizes in hand.
i buckle you in
and you shoot me the
you tricked me look.

we arrive home
to a fridge full of
pudding, jello, ice cream.
you remember you are six
(not all grown up)
and break into a jubilant smile.

Isabella

you won’t listen
but you’ll direct.
Pull the tails off like this.
I’ll hold my fingers. You count.
Find the letter M.
Twist the bottom of the toothbrush.

like a monkey you climb
onto the counter
scavenging for spoons
plates
glassware
assigning seats at the table
with the air of a hostess

i remember when
the other babies were here.
you couldn’t walk,
but you climbed right into
the patio chair
giggling like a gorilla
posing proudly
at your accomplishments,
confident then,
leader now.

Pain to Peace

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i step inside to tears
worthy of sudden death,
three red-eyed girls
limp with want,
unable to spill the tale.

my heart jumps into my veins.
“where’s Daddy?” i pop out.
“what’s wrong?”
but tears and moans
fill the gaping holes
of longing.

their pain is my panic.
i pull them into my arms,
sing them songs,
wait for the story to sift through
the tormented version of truth
their small minds will allow.

he enters, patient but done,
his version highly revised,
worthy of publication.
with girls in arms,
books on laps,
words and pictures from pages,
hugs and kisses goodnight,
we move from pain to peace.

Me

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i don’t want to be here.
i’m good at this.
i’ve read enough
to share stories and articles
with my co-teachers,
have taught enough
to take over their lessons on the fly,
remember her words enough
to stand at the front and teach
while simultaneously seeing students
for who they really are,
can move through classrooms
and schedules with
hauntingly smooth ease,
can grade a stack of 150
short constructed responses
before the state test is over
and still take the time
to cry a little when i see
how poor a student’s score will be

but i cannot
i cannot
take the tears out of my four-year-old’s eyes
after the rushed-morning goodbye,
the words i cannot take back,
the days
the months
the years
i cannot take back,
the me
(the mommy me)
who i fear will never be as good
as the me
who walks down these hallways.

Wrapped

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with my ear to the carpet
the cathartic words
emanated from his lips
the drumbeat heavy on my skin.

wrapped in blankets
that couldn’t keep me warm
i played the tunes
time after tenuous time.

my mother came in
stood in the kitchen
dishing up the pasta
singing right along.

she never noticed
the untouched plate
the hours on the couch
or the music that i couldn’t turn off.

i stand here now
wrapped in winter coat
that can’t keep me warm
and remember the heartbreak cold.

Silver

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with aching muscles
i nestle into the leather couch
surrounded by strangers,
our children
piling on top of
giant silver foam blocks,
forming friendships
as quickly
as the silvery flakes falling
outside the wall
of white-framed windows.

i watch the snow slither
into the city,
the silver titanium points
of this art museum
a perfect picture frame
of the silvery cityscape of skyscrapers
standing tall against the winter.

it is all warmth here,
all smiles,
and we could stay all afternoon
or forever in my memory.

Spell

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her words escaped you
two years ago,
your never-sit-still antics
keeping your ears
from listening.

i read aloud now,
my attempt at
a Scottish accent
as pitiful as the pink umbrella
Hagrid uses to
pull out the pig’s tail,
and you sit, still as a stone,
asking for another chapter.

though the words
your Daddy and I have loved
for almost as long as
your Daddy and I have been
together
are just now
casting their spell on you,
i am grateful for
whatever words will lead you
into our love of literature.