she shines a light
that she’ll only sometimes
allow us to see.
for the most part,
she’s masked in mystery
that neither of us understands.
so when i see a ray
shine through, please do not
block its passage into the night.
i have coaxed her for years,
just as i have coaxed you. yet,
light eludes me, darkness ensues.
how to feed six children:
mix one pound of beef,
one pound of pasta,
a giant jar of tomatoes,
two cups of white sauce,
a few kid-friendly spices,
and place it on the table.
fifteen minutes later,
after firsts and seconds are devoured,
put in a movie and wait.
they’ll wander into the kitchen
one at a time,
begging to be fed again.
get out the half gallon
of ice cream and
place it on the table.
five minutes later,
after firsts and seconds are devoured,
brush their teeth and put them to bed.
when the sun rises,
repeat,
repeat,
repeat.
do we fight this fight
or give in for one night?
do we stand our ground
and put up with the sound?
it’s hard to know what to do
when it isn’t us, but you
we can’t control what others want
only their actions tonight will haunt.
sleep will come when exhaustion wins
and we’ll forget this evening’s sins
moving on to the light of day
we’ll say what we want to say.
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.
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.
they’re all decked out for
the devil’s birthday
(Hallelujah!)
in Princess Mulan,
clown, cheerleader,
lion, samurai, and pirate.
no hallelujah party for us tonight,
but steps down dark streets
ringing doorbells
and saying hello to neighbors
whose blown-up pumpkin balloons
hover like glowing monsters
over the kids’ trail of treats.
we’re devilish, aren’t we?
letting them plan out this night
for months, pulling seeds from pumpkins,
creating costumes to die for,
seeing them work up a sweat
in their mad dash for candy?
yes, we’ve missed the hallelujah party,
given in
to the American dream of Halloween,
but for one night a year,
when we all pretend to be
something other than ourselves,
when we all remember
the thrilled excitement of the candy rush,
i think this steals the devil’s show.
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