you’ve already made it clear
you’re the king of the castle
so save your glorified words
i’ll live without the hassle
do not step down from your throne
throw your haughtiness my way
always an authority
on subjects you wish to sway
i will not bow down to you
’cause i see right through your shit
you may think you’re royalty
but we know the crown won’t fit
tomorrow i will barely be able to walk
today i’ve earned my immobile muscles
with three hours of intensity
that blinded me with sweat
which makes my double scoop
of mint chocolate chip
topped with thin mints
all the more sweet
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.
i don’t want a poem with pushed out words,
one that couldn’t capture the heated moment
of tears she keeps at the corners of her eyes,
a poem that pushes out unbelonging rhymes,
one that couldn’t draw a picture
of her head in my lap,
her sorrow seeping into my knees,
one that will tell me
(teacher’s note signed)
that my daughter has moved
from above average to average
i don’t want a poem
with pushed out thoughts
to taper my emotions back behind me
like my on-fire muscles during workouts,
riding up my back like a hot rope
that i will never pull tight enough
i want a poem like the songs i sing
(out of tune)
my own tears falling willingly
in the dark hours of morning
as i belt out lyrics
with the best of them,
my shaky voice
everything that is
inside and outside of me
i want a poem with well-formed words,
one that will sing to my soul,
make me remember this day
because it is like any other day
(it is unlike any other day)
i will only have it once,
and i want to grab that poem,
squeeze it in my palm,
and suck the bloody juice
until i can taste the truth
of the world found in imperfect poetry
sometimes the winds never let go
but carry on an endless flow
it’s hard to touch and hard to hear
the droning sound that soars so near
if i could push them back to sky
and use their strength to rise and fly
i wouldn’t hate the winds with ire
if they could fuel a flaming fire
instead they’re cold and harsh and real
nothing like a dream surreal
nothing like i first imagined
when in my mind this all happened.
fantastic dreams are all i see
full-on sun in front of me
but reality can’t be swept away
by winds of seasonal display.
mañana tenemos el
Acción de Día de Gracias tercera
he stands in an airport
with laughter at the back of his voice,
the emotion so close to tears
that they sit waiting
on the edges of my lids
estamos bien.
tenemos una avión mañana por la mañana
because we are all well
with them in our midst–
so un-American to be grateful
for a night longer,
a missed flight,
a smile that we’ve all tucked away
inside ourselves
(that he fishes out
as easily as catching
tadpoles on a hot June day)
Thanksgiving dos,
we sit and share thanks:
one of the four girls
mentions her extra parents
(the highlight of the evening)
i bring forth my Spaniards
(absent)
but with an ever-present influence
on every thought i have,
on every emotion that has crossed my heart
in the four short months
that i have made them mine
Isabella gives me the look
as if i could forget
the reason we are all gathered,
for without these four girls,
none of this happiness
could float in the room
carrying the
feliz día de los padres
mylar balloon
up to the ceiling,
zhuzhu pet attached,
miracle in place
(can you see it?)
and the Spaniards?
they would live somewhere else,
and our surrealistic vision
of tomorrow
would be so.
real.
so.
unimaginative.
instead?
i hear him laugh
about fumando el toro,
the night in the airport
and our third,
and final,
Thanksgiving meal.
they take bottles of clear liquid
wipe the sinks, mirrors, toilets
while we toil with decluttering
and four levels of vacuuming
all before eleven when we
snap ourselves into the tiny car
and drive along sun-streamed streets,
the leaves dancing before us,
letting loose green and gold shade.
we stop and walk to the apple stand
and buy small imperfects
that their hands grasp, juice dripping
before we’ve even ordered souvlaki gyros
to sit on the bench in the shade
and eat with Greek lemon-chicken soup
(i’ll never remember the name).
they skip back to the car
a menagerie of dresses and pants,
and trick-or-treat street awaits
as they measure their steps on the map
sucking in the sun of this Sunday.
we move on to the store that started it all,
the giant scoops of homemade dreams
melting along the sides of the cones
and as we buy our drinks for another day
we move to the library, their singsong voices
unable to contain their excitement over books.
we stop for gas, pack tomorrow’s clothes, lunch,
and evening seeps in to the autumn afternoon
they sit down to veggie sliders
and question our music
and ride their bikes into the night
and remind me
again
again
again
how simply perfect life can be.
golden tinged with age
they fall like raindrops
onto the street
a carpet of conformity
a song for the season
i remember that day
the tiny yellow bus
your spirally hair
and the leaves leaves leaves
circling a halo of beauty
that we couldn’t capture then
nor now
i want to gather my golden raindrops
be fifteen again
when I could suck in
the marrow of life with no tomorrow
instead it is a passing moment
a portion of a chaotic drive
the street littered
with the beauty you saw better than me
the pain poking out
in mini tornadoes of silent sound
a day i will remember
a day i will forget.
we are specters zipping along
this curvacious path,
our beams reaching for morning,
longing for night.
before i can blink
our tires zip by.
you are gone from
my limited view.
i will remember the
moon-touched path,
its snakelike guidance along
the grassland’s edge.
but i will never remember
your face unseen,
my morning specter,
my divergent shadow
with my music dead
i push myself against the darkness
all i can hear
between my grumbling stomach
and the screaming inside my head
is the howling wind
that pushes against
every rotation
my monster of morning
my monster of mourning.
Step Write Up 