the beat is in the background
subtle
wavering
but i can still hear it.
instrumentals move in
twangy
sweet
vocals pounding microphone.
lyrics flow (honey from mouth)
stretched
anticipatory
words that try to hide it.
a breath, a moment without verse
ba-dum
ba-dum
breaking through the song.
i wait for the beat to take over
penetrating
impregnable
for you to hear what i hear.
Dear Phil:
I saw that book you gave me.
Remember?
The best-first-year
beat-up, bedraggled
copy you’d
“given to all your proteges”?
You forgot something.
I wasn’t your protege.
I didn’t need to hear
how Kari won
best-first-year-teacher
the year before
or
how I “might not get
rehired”
if I couldn’t control
period six.
I needed for you
to not be my mother
to not be my father
to not be
the beat-up
bedraggled
copy of criticism
that had followed me
all of my life.
Do you remember?
It was my first year
and one of your last.
At least you can walk away
knowing you
were there for me.
Love,
The Best First Year
cat’s paws on glass
dented side panel
dash lights that haven’t
worked in five years
bits of wrappings
from kids’ endless
candy expenditures
taped-on headlight
zip-tied bumper
broken visor
windshield crack
of spider-ice
locks and windows
you have to open
by hand
broken cup holders
too small for any drink
radio numbers
you can no longer see.
and you dare ask
how i could layer on
thick butt pad
sports-bra undershirt
two long underwear tops
one long underwear bottom
bike capris
two pairs of socks
two sets of gloves
a bandana, hat, scarf
a helmet and headphones
a saddle bag filled with
lunch and work clothes?
oh.
you missed
the silver sliver of moon
the last star of night
the windless morn
Aurora’s pink fingertips
painting the sky
the top of the hill home
where the curving road
presented its framed picture
of the city skyline
distantly mirrored
by snow-capped fourteeners.
i understand.
you would rather be warm.
i would rather have warmth.
what have i missed
with the words that won’t end,
what smile or giggle
did my daughters try to send?
how can i allow
your endless conversation
to suck up my night
with this awkward situation?
if he would do his work
and you would let it go
then perhaps we wouldn’t have to
fill our worry-carts with woe.
but no one here seems to care
that waiting is not enough
that sloth and slacking are rewarded
–hard work a dire rebuff.
what have i missed
with the words that never end
that haunt my insomnia
with a world i cannot mend?
Dr. Mr. Orwell,
You were right.
Big Brother hovers,
an omnipotent cloud
sneaking into every crevasse
of the glaciers
he’s placed in front of
our harrowed steps
up the mountain
none of us knew we’d climb.
Without a word
escaping our lips,
he knows our thoughts
and places his restrictions,
garishly flashing sound-bitten ads
on the pages
we once were able
to read in silence.
Just like Winston,
we seek shelter
among proletariats
who suck at our teets
with wanton thirst
for all that he will not allow
us to provide for them.
Big Brother has ensured
no shelter,
for it would detract
from the icy hike
he has put in place of
the rolling surreal hills
of the life
he won’t allow us to imagine.
I ask now,
as you toss in your tormented grave,
how so closely you could examine
the future,
how so bitterly you could speak
of the unwanted brutality of truth,
how so easily you could predict
the world we would rather depart
than be a part of.
Isabella
infinitesimally eight
you round out your three-day weekend
with consecutive sleepovers
endless games and dives
at Casa Bonita
and round-the-block singing
of Girl Scout songs
in your train of Brownie vests.
infinitesimally eight
i hope you will remember
this bright moment
of your youth
with these words you will
someday read.
Mythili
Mixing in with the older set
Yearning for forever-gone blankey
True to your matter-of-fact words
Heatedly demanding justice
Imaginative to no end
Loving the art that shapes your life
Inundated with the realities of school.
Riona
tears and sobs take control of you
at the mere mention of Daddy’s death
a death unknown, far-reaching
and my arms can’t console
the sensitive child
who needs to nestle
in his shoulder,
dentist-forbidden thumb in mouth,
your cries simmering down
to the ever emanating warmth
of his love for you,
his Daddy’s Girl.
funny how you mask yourself
for their protection
and i wear the button
proudly on my jacket,
picture-whispering
my beliefs for all to see.
when your thoughts
bubble up out of you
in an eruption of disparity
from the tight-necked clothes
you’ve kept around you,
the lava stings my view
of who i thought you were.
you wait for molten rock
to form as ash settles,
but i am trapped underneath
the red flow from your mantle,
unable to break through the crack
in the crust you chose to expose,
unable to even whisper what i see.
with my ear to the carpet
the cathartic words
emanated from his lips
the drumbeat heavy on my skin.
wrapped in blankets
that couldn’t keep me warm
i played the tunes
time after tenuous time.
my mother came in
stood in the kitchen
dishing up the pasta
singing right along.
she never noticed
the untouched plate
the hours on the couch
or the music that i couldn’t turn off.
i stand here now
wrapped in winter coat
that can’t keep me warm
and remember the heartbreak cold.
it’s Valentine’s Day
and decked out in red,
heart earrings in place,
ready for my Brownie tea party,
i tuck cookies into mailboxes
and begin my day.
the words on the screen
jump out at me,
ripping all the love
from this ever-loving day
straight from my heart
as i embrace the truth
of what they will miss.
my chili lunch,
my box of chocolate strawberries,
my desire
are left uneaten
as i move through the motions,
counting the minutes
until i am safe to let
everything out in
words
tears
screams
that no one will hear.
but i can’t.
it is not about me
or my mistake
or anyone’s miscommunication.
it is about what is best for them,
and before you even close the door,
i know you will listen.
we sit at the circular table,
each sharing our version
of the empty spaces
that lie before us.
and before the moment
can slip between our fingers,
you help me find the words
i didn’t know i had,
filling our empty spaces,
reminding me why i love it here,
how you listen,
how you lead,
solve problems,
dry the tears
that now creep back into
the corners of my eyes
as i write these words.
because there are no words
to truly describe
the love that is here
in this room, this school,
this place where the students come first,
where you stand tall
and step aside
in the same graceful moment.
we’re a cookie train
decked out in
conductors’ clothes:
Brownie and Daisy,
brown and blue,
multicolored patches
glistening in the sun,
red wagon behind
brimming with
a rainbow of boxes
tied with
red, yellow, green, purple
ribbons,
blue and white cards,
working our way
through the melting-snow streets
to bring a little happiness
on a Sunday afternoon.
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