i can write a ten-minute poem
fingertips touched
with years of hesitation
i am not accustomed
to holding these reins
lost in college years
i never took advantage of
i drive the carriage now
as we gallop across new lands
their realism lit up with logic
while at home we count coins
they know me well
how cautiously i shake these reins
like kings of the same root
our horses will fly us home
all these months later
returning chill, haunting words
i hate that you’re right
it looks like firelight
i know it’s only light above the stove
tile backing
granite countertops and all
but if you’re walking past
and you imagine you’re someone else
you might think for a moment
that there’s a fire in your kitchen
i’ve always imagined
a room like that
lit up by the warmth
only brought forward
by flames licking wood
it crackles here
somewhere hidden
as i watch her smile over miles
his smart remarks
as kind as the tomorrow
he places like daily gems
for all to sift through
i could count the days for her
she calls me on it
quicker than a Cheshire cat
and it’s the UK pounds
that make our words
you see it don’t you?
have i painted for you
the picture of my perfect fire?
the subtle light
yellow and warm
its heat moving across continents
weaving a smokeless room
into the heat of our hearts
church bells ring the hour
the sun brought my afternoon
a holiday, life
as loose as these words
that spill over subconscious
we’ll find our way back
before a long break
upon returning after
cheek-kissing culture
we tip the shot glass
twenty years in the making
cheers to a fresh start
Isabella
nose buried in Kindle,
a version different than our own,
the words like gold
still the same
as you excitedly spill
Harry’s latest endeavors
you climb like a monkey
over nets, up walls, on mountaintops
and keep small secrets
for fear of losing out
just shy of ten,
you stand past my shoulder now–
i’m afraid of double digits
as you’re buried in books
and beginning to abandon dolls
i suppose
we all must grow–
you in your wild, monkey-like way,
me, in my motherly view of your milestones
Mythili
the center of imaginary play,
instrumental in all
Monster High shenanigans,
the perfect voice-over
of coming of age
the center of language,
you pick up British accents
and repeat back
in perfect translation
all the Castellano words
the center of three girls,
just past eight,
your eyes light up our photos,
connect either sister like glue–
so much more than a middle child
Riona
with your ever-small defiance,
you fight for seats next to me,
won’t give in to open-minded eating,
and still suck your thumb
five months beyond
your six-year mark,
you patiently wait
for your closest friends
(sisters of course)
to guide you through the
maze of Spain
all these years later,
calm as can be,
your ever-small defiance
peaks in surprises,
the small gifts of perfect grades,
an ever-pleasant smile,
and our best example of
unequivocal love
he tells me about the Muse
the one she spoke of
all those years back–
hippie of the nineties
she comes to me
just as he described
like a demon
moving my words into place
even on this small screen
just like the tiny notebooks
i used to carry place to place
she is as furious as ever
i spill my Stonehenge story
like blood dripping from my nose
that can’t be stopped without
a giant glass of water
my irking for a different take
on this simple life we’re all handed
can be summarized by that summer
when spoiled teens stole my Stonehenge
my muse comes in disguise
in lips belonging to me to her
and her words my words
are as genuine as at sixteen
he speaks of demons
we all carry them like shadows
in our back pockets
me? i let them out
hilltop Alhambra
generations of dreams built
Islam, Catholic rule
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