the sun beats its way into summer
and simmers along the shore.
all i see are sparkles
brighter than diamonds
lighting up my lake,
my little girls piling
watery sand on my
abandoned-nail-polish feet,
hazy mountains in the distance
popping under bright blue sky,
my Colorado begging me to stay
but i know, i know,
their sand-castle grins
captured in my shitty lens,
that i will be home,
we will be home,
as long as we’re together
i pull apart the pack-n-play–
one of my closest friend’s baby
will sleep here again tonight
it still fits him
(my girls are way outgrown)
and it still fits
in this ten by ten room
the room carpeted green
painted (nine months pregnant) white
that we built with sweat and tears
eleven years in the making
the room in our basement
now stacked with our lives–
books we cannot part from,
handmade quilts, knick-knacks,
art from my mother’s
most delicate brush and pencil,
all our family photos
he will sleep here tonight
(he still fits)
all our closets and walls are empty
(they all fit)
and i just wonder
as i see our life
in perfectly neat stacks–
how can we fit anywhere else?
she is five
she is my baby
we stand in hot sun
beneath a bittersweet ending
i help her hold up her hand
and when she isn’t included
no one notices
and i feel smaller than her
when he comes up and asks
if i’m some other girl’s mother
so he can invite her (not mine)
to a birthday party?
all i can do
all i can do
is be grateful for my new
dark sunglasses to hide my tears
and the worries that rest
deep in a mother’s heart?
this is the bittersweet beginning
of a lifetime more
Riona
with Starburst in her pocket,
girls follow behind like
needy pups.
only one knows the destination
of the gift:
the quiet child who always watches,
who often plays by herself
and becomes the coveted pet tagalong
now she pipes up,
i know who those are for–my mama,
because she loves my mama
and my mama loves Starburst.
i would like to be that unnoticed
and that necessary.
Mythili
you’re the middle child
unaware of sisters’ quirks
living in your world
Isabella
you gave me a dose
of grumpy teenage hormones
what will we do then?
day eleven, wall seventeen:
a stack of irreplaceable bills,
nonrefundable reservations
scraping at my dream
(everything i can’t give,
everything i can’t take back)
will it be worth it,
will they open their eyes wider
upon breathing Mediterranean air,
or will the burdens bearing down
on mama and daddy
be heavier than sea-level breath?
if i could slide down the mountains
right down into the sea
and shed myself of my
nonrefundable reservations,
would i be free enough to see the beauty
behind the walls i must still face?
Riona
you speak to almost no one.
we see your shy face
hide behind your mama
as if a couple of years
were lost along your upbringing.
yet,
on stage,
your Peruvian chicken costume
in full polka-dot glory,
straw wings,
paper orange beak and all,
you are a star
as you dance front center,
the folk guitar song
giving new life
to my littlest angel.
Mythili
with focused face
looking so much
like a small adult
that i sometimes forget
you’re a child,
you create art.
a windmill in
perfect proportions
copied from a book,
the oil pastel coloring
as detailed as a
gallery painting
the Girl Scout
finger puppet
where you sit surrounded
by Daisies whose
mothers assist in every step,
you speak not a word
but work diligently
on cutting, gluing,
mastering your art.
this is your gift from God,
this is your gift to the world.
Isabella
you shine your light
wherever you go,
upon your persistent pleas
for a gecko,
a cowboy belt,
or dinner alone with mama.
you direct plays
in the backyard,
setting up obstacle courses
and circuses,
your siblings and friends
falling under your spotlight
to shine in your presence
baby sister mimics all you do,
and at first irritated,
you give in to flattery,
making a parade around the house
and reading all her favorite stories,
your brightness shining
on all you do, see, touch
the light right now
as i kiss my girls goodnight?
it is unlike any other sunset,
the clouds a perfect concoction
of pink and gray,
and they hold tight to my neck
and beg me for stories of Medusa
that Silverstein told them about,
that i ad-lib with college knowledge.
i’m going to college,
they chime in,
three birds in a row,
so i can know as much as you
and they are my girls
through and through
just like a baby
my baby curls in to cuddle
her small body
still fits into my lap
i can’t replace the hours we’ve lost
the years we’ve lost
or fill the ache in my heart
for the good i’m trying to do
that doesn’t do me any good
but when her tears creep down?
when she won’t go for a night of fun
because she’s missed me too much,
when the weeks have flooded by
in a pile of work
that i’m so fucking good at
when i can’t just be her mother?
it is too much
and i am five again
just like her
searching for my mother’s arms
to comfort the sadness
that rests so heavily on my soul
Isabella
since age two,
in intermittent spurts
you creep downstairs
in the dark hours of morning,
your voice cautious,
Daddy?
(because you know me well enough
to leave me be)
he won’t wake up,
(you are almost nine)
and i send you back up to your room,
telling you that you’re old enough now
to soothe yourself back to sleep
you leave the room sobbing.
i toss and turn
in my already-restless sleep
worrying over the scar i’d created,
a bitter hole in our relationship
you’d remember till you die
when i wake you for school,
you have a happy story
about little Laura and locusts
from the book that soothed you,
fully forgiving me for nighttime selfishness
i think back to my childhood,
how i would have treated my parents
to silence for a day,
pouting in defiance
perhaps you,
insomniac, crazy, loud-mouthed you (me)
are just a little different,
so subtle that i couldn’t catch
your drying tears to see
the beauty of your individual soul
(i see it now,
and i am so proud to be your mama)
Mythili
you are a young woman,
though seven,
you prove time and again
how easily words will come–
you have backtalk and sass
like a teenager
and know just what not to say
one punishment is enough
to teach you a lifelong lesson,
and you take your crone’s hands
and draw pictures
with delicate detail
only mastered by true artists
how you came to be mine,
with your fierce independence
and longing for touch
while simultaneously craving
to be left alone,
will mystify me as you move
into the next step
of your beautiful life.
Riona
you will not speak
at times specified only in
your quiet mind,
a mystery to all of us
who wish to hear your words
i know you hide behind
those dark lashes
a collection of truths
that will someday spill out
now you save your words
for strangers in your first
cookie outings
while we wait
at home, at school,
for the thumb to come out,
for the gentle voice
to roll over our minds
and bring us to the real you.
we sit in central citified sun
sipping smoothies and lattes,
munching on freshly baked croissants
and chatting with strangers
on a day so warm it can’t be
the third week of January
(a beauty we all share
as we peel off our winter coats)
they skip alongside on an impromptu adventure,
moving along the zero street,
playing pig and picking out dates
on ovular stamps in concrete.
we enter the train store
and examine the pure wonder
of details so tiny, humans
standing knee-deep in plexiglass water,
monkeys climbing up a fallen-apart billboard,
and fast-moving trains. one declares,
it is nothing short of art
later i pedal into the wind
around the dam and up the hill
until i see the circular beauty of the lake,
and its curvacious path
interweaves me with a hundred pairs of legs,
all taking advantage
of this day like no other
before i am home
i am home,
and can almost forget
the tears whose all night sting
kept my eyes bleeding till morning,
the two dark, cold miles of separation,
and the hollowness of our words
that find their way
into the poems he wishes i wouldn’t write.
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