she clings to her mama’s bosom,
her face a mirror of her father,
and crawls about the room
with the intentions
of discovering every tiny item
that ever was dropped on the floor.
i try to pick her up,
but she can hear her mama’s voice,
and i remember how much i loved, hated
the need that my girls no longer have.
it could be the lights
twinkling like miniatures stars
or the people walking
hand in hand,
or the horses’ hooves
that sparkle
in Christmastime glitter
or it could be
the three little girls
in footed pajamas
covered in heavy coats,
fleecy hats, and snow boots,
drawing attention
from passersby
about our new fashion trend.
it could be the
fresh baked zucchini cake
with sprinkly cream cheese frosting,
the hot eggnog latte,
the grasshopper chocolate,
that ride down into our stomachs
on a warm sled of delectability.
whatever it is,
the lights, the girls, the food,
it is home, city, love.
Mythili
Freshly six, your latest
obsessions are your new Zhu Zhu
and the Tangled doll
with hair so long
I had to braid it on day one.
Just like when you were two,
you guard your possessions
as fiercely as a new mother,
holding them close to your chest
on all adventures, theirs and yours.
A year from now, what will you love most?
Will you have abandoned these items
for the latest movie character,
or have given in to your love of books,
your soon-to-be expert knowledge of words?
As I say whenever you ask me a question
that I’m not so sure of an answer to
(my response, in your eyes, a yes),
we’ll see.
Riona
With a long line,
a tiny half circle attached,
a diagonal drawn like a
ray of light across the page,
you have written the first
letter of your name. You ask
for more, and I feed them to you.
You swallow them up and
regurgitate the connected-dot i,
the perfect o, the upside-down n,
and the little a, a circle and tail.
And just as you are not quite sure
how to make the letters just right,
I am not quite sure how I am
going to stand here and watch you grow.
Isabella
Fifty-four pounds, almost half my weight,
you still ask me to carry you.
I reach around your skinny waist
and hoist you up, your arms
flailing wildly (impossible
for you to be still, even now)
as we move into your bedroom.
A kiss good night, a button on the iPod,
and you will listen to the same song tonight,
on repeat, that has played for six months.
I imagine your wedding day,
your groom picking you up in a dance.
Will you play this song, remember its waltz?
Or will I be the only one singing,
“Cantaremos alto, cantaremos bajo,”
until my heart can go neither high nor low,
but stay as neutral as your weight in my arms allows.
i am better at this
just as you taught me
hand over hand
hand over arm
hand on hand
hand on arm
and now you?
calm as a summer breeze
in the midst of frigid temps
cradling them
in the layers of love
that were missing
from my childhood.
instead i’ll stand here
mashing my angst into potatoes
dicing up boiled eggs
slicing perfect candied yams
doing everything you taught me
and more.
the table is set.
the kitchen is spotless.
my children are loved.
and i should be so thankful
that i know how to do
all that i know how to do.
We stand in tights, leggings, skirts,
a tie and jacket, dolled up as much as
our fellow theatre-goers
waiting for the train.
Our breaths form miniature clouds
as they enter the humid night air.
We shuffle our feet, clap our hands,
pull up our hoods, rejoice at the lights
of the train curving around the tracks.
Everyone says, How old are they?
Going to the theatre? Shrek tonight?
Beautiful girls, beautiful, beautiful girls.
As we stand clutching the pole, no room.
It couldn’t be better. The pictures we took
(soon to be Christmas cards), the lipstick
now smearing across their cheeks,
the laugh-your-ass-off musical of our dreams.
Four, six, almost eight, I tell them.
They say it only gets better. But how can it
be better than this? Dinner at a local restaurant,
riding the train downtown, the theatre,
three little, little girls as proud as new parents?
We’ll see. For now, I take their tiny hands in mine,
dash through the tunnel with lights that
ring at their anxious pats, their pink jackets
and polka-dot tights reminding me of the youth
we all have within us, the youth, the love we crave.
is this my year of
baggage dug up from
depths beneath the earth
where i thought i’d buried
every last tag of remorse?
is this my year of
bricks stacked up along
a wall that keeps me
from where i am
and what i ache
for on the other side?
is this my year of
rain poured over my soul,
quenching the ardor
beneath my skin,
drowning my senses
until i can no longer breathe?
is this my year,
my year that i have to
let them go
let them go
let it, let it go?
just as my students pull
like a dead weight
at the back of my brain
she looks up
her four-year-old cheeks
as smooth as innocence
and whispers,
“Mama, I wish
you didn’t have to work.”
i can’t hold them back
but she studies my family tree necklace
as the salt drips down
my thirty-two-year-old cheeks
as rough as pain
and whispers,
“I love you so much, Mama.”
and it is about all i can do
it is about all i can do
it is about all i can do
holding her
without words
her cheek against my cheek
is about all i can do.
i need for you to see it
through my eyes
though i know
you’ll never understand.
it doesn’t help me to know
just how horrible it is
for someone else.
no matter how hard i try.
i crave what i have lost
what i dreamt most about
what is gone
and cannot be replaced.
this is a poem
filled with words
none of which can describe
what i see through my eyes.
they are small still
but not small enough.
i look at the magnet
of the fat-cheeked, bald baby
holding up the picture
of our young niece.
there she sits now,
her cheeks hollow, thin,
running her fingers across
the iPad and reading aloud
to the small sisters
who sit on either side of her.
how can this be?
how can i remember so well
the clearest moment of my life,
when i first became her mother,
their mother,
and it was just a moment ago,
i wish it were just a moment ago.
i want to take my Mason jars
and instead of canning tomatoes
trap beneath the lids
seal tight for a forever season
the years that have slipped
out of the bubbling steam of my kitchen,
out into the yard, the cul-de-sac, the school,
trap them there and stack
my three beauties in their youth,
displayed in sparkling rows
of love along my pantry shelf.
I am the empress
you the emperor
as you sit for over a month,
our young tucked
beneath your flaps of skin, fur
protected from windy storms
harsher than hell
while I waddle my way
across Antarctica,
weak from giving birth,
starved from lack of fish,
the iciness engulfing me
until I feel I can move no more.
But it is you,
it is them,
huddled together in fatherly love,
that push me forward,
reaching the sea
with its wealth of life,
bringing it back
for you, for them,
for all of us to taste
as we form a new season.
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