it’s so hot you’d think it’s summer
yet we have a reservation
so we soak up these snowless moments
trying to find glitter sparkling on pines
after a late-night flurry of fruitless hope
and wind our way over logs and rocks
exposed way too late this winter
as harsh on our newly-waxed skis
as the climate-changing burn of sun
and it’s January. New Year.
new chances to fill our future
with darkening doom scrolling
because we can’t find any tracks with no snow.
maybe I’ll write in 2026
maybe someone will read the words
and feel in the marrow of their bones
how hard it is to be human
and no one else
not AI not Shakespeare not Google
will fill my (your) minds
with inglorious bullshit
and we’ll videotape the Kentucky
winter sunset
and see a white-tailed deer before
we see a singular horse
(and the fences are brown, not white)
and everyone will stop talking
while we film
and you will see
that winter
is
beautiful
maybe we could make
being human a ritual
this simple capture
if an inglorious moment
and a deer you’ll miss if you don’t focus
and the sun
that will still rise tomorrow
maybe the new year will bring
a gavel on this oligarchy
ringing through 250 years
of patriarchal dominance
and we could just listen to
WOMEN?
dear stranger who
intentionally ran the red light
and first almost hit a car
then almost hit this cyclist:
a curse upon you and your
raised middle finger.
my cusses were valid;
your intersection rape was not.
you are not the rainbow
but the clouds
that produce no rain
on a hot August night
and the sun will strike you down.
It all started with a van his little brother bought after working in their parents’ store for their childhood, a summer road trip across the country with his brothers, and falling in love with the snowy peaks, cool temps, and endless blue skies of Colorado. Dad just knew he had to leave woodsy, rainy, gray Connecticut, the only home he’d ever known, and transfer colleges. A transfer that would give him the degree he wanted as a journalist and editor, and better than any degree, a transfer to a university where he would meet Mom, marry his love within a year, and raise a family of two daughters, never once complaining about being a ”girl mom”.
And just like that summer road trip where some nights were cold and wet and some days were filled with rays of golden hope, Mom and Dad have weathered many storms in fifty years. Challenging jobs, layoffs, more moves across the country to help Grandma and Grandpa Dowling run that same store when Grandpa got sick, finding jobs in the beautiful, idyllic Finger Lakes where Elizabeth and I created core childhood memories exploring the woods and riding our bikes and swimming in lakes, then back to Colorado where there were more opportunities when the sky got stormy again.
And just like that summer road trip where Dad discovered what he wanted in life, Mom and Dad took us on many trips even when money was tight. Mom drew carnivorous plants so perfectly for a botany book that she earned enough money for us to drive down to Disney World, camping the whole time, where we met Mickey and baked in the spring Floridian sun at the water park. We came to Colorado and went camping with Mom’s family, learning how to ride motorbikes and four-wheelers, borrowing Grandma and Grandpa Jordan’s old station wagon to see the Grand Canyon and Mesa Verde, to see that never-ending stretch of blue sky on ancient rock formations shaped by rivers and men, and to find within ourselves that desire to see more of the world than what was under our giant maple back home.
Every fall we drove to Vermont for a long weekend at Bob’s ski lodge with Dad’s whole family, soaking in the sauna and hiking amid swiftly falling multicolored New England leaves. We took trips to Washington, D.C., New York City, the Adirondacks, and coastal Maine. We visited family in most of the places we traveled to, Elizabeth and I fought our way through un-air-conditioned backseat travel, eating Mom’s homemade tuna sandwiches and picking on Dad for carrying around his “Daddy purse”, his camera bag, because he was always taking pictures of our adventures.
Once we settled down in Denver, we continued to travel, camping and skiing in our beautiful Rocky Mountains, Mom changing her bedtime song from, “It’s bedtime in the Finger Lakes” to, “It’s bedtime in the Rocky Mountains!” so happy to be home. We grew into ourselves walking city streets and meeting people from all over the world in our newly diverse classrooms, blossoming into the women we have become—women who know the value and importance of travel, education, hard work, starting over, and never staying still.
Sure, we never had one of those beach vacations where you sip piña coladas for a week and lounge around the hotel pool . Was it because we couldn’t afford it or because we couldn’t afford to miss what was really out there in the world—the historical architecture and beautiful art that Mom always shared along the way, or the long bike rides through state and national parks that dad loved to lead—these are the gifts you gave us.
It all started with a road trip in an old, used van. And we’re so happy to celebrate a fifty-year marriage, and all the memories you created for us, as you drove your dreams and guided ours. Thank you, Mom and Dad. Cheers to fifty years, and to many more. We love you.
you should ride your bike
is all i have to say
to rural New York
it’s legit flat straight
at a low elevation
you could breathe. and see.
a lock will open
one day on your broken heart
and you’ll see the blue
i showed my students a picture of
my childhood home today
“I’m from a big white house
with the giant maple tree still standing”
These were the words of my
“Where I’m From” poem
“Que rico estuviera” YanCarlos called me out
not seeing the old Chevy Nova,
four bicycles on top,
my dad’s homemade trailer behind,
my mother, father, sister, me,
our dog, our cat,
inside the tiny car,
ready to drive 1200 miles
for a future in Denver
Denver, a mile high,
a million jobs,
or so we… THEY… thought?
How deceptive a photo can be,
bragging riches
when there were just empty pockets,
an almost-lost mortgage,
a pile of debt.
Yet here we are,
here I am,
begging them to write me a poem
even if it’s in Spanish,
Even if they haven’t a single photo of their home,
their family,
their past.
Where they are from
Is
And will always be
so much more painful
Than that old Chevy.
you will never see
a light as bright as this light
walking your dog home
twenty-five years in
sometimes kindness wins
with a crocheted coaster egg
erasing dog’s bite
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