she chirps and coos like
a little bird and laughs
with the touch of an angel,
but when she screams and
won’t go to sleep, and fills
her diaper with a proud giggle,
i am reminded of why, while i
love her, am still happy at the
end of the day to hand her off
to mom, to tell my girls to go
to the bathroom, brush their
teeth and hair, listen to a story,
and go (without crying once in
the night) to bed.
poetry
The Vittetoe Express
It’s June first (my mother’s birthday)
ninety degrees with a slight breeze
that makes this uphill ride tolerable,
and as I pedal along I catch sight of
our illustrious three-tiered shadow.
First me, silver helmet casting sparkles
against the cracked black pavement,
then Mythili on the tag-along, her frilly
dress flowing behind her seat like a
butterfly waiting to escape the heat,
and then the round caboose of the trailer
with Riona singing Christmas songs as I
shout, “Pedal!” when we come to the
bottom of another glorious hill.
Before we’ve even made it to the park
(the one with two playgrounds, a creek
where Elizabeth fetched the girls’ pollywogs,
a Frisbee golf course and exercise equipment),
we have turned every driver and pedestrian
with gaping rubbernecks bent in our direction, and
I have thought of a name for this silhouette of
bikes daisy-chained to one another in harmony:
The Vittetoe Express, a perfect train of thought,
a perfect train of happiness on this
perfect Kentucky summer day.
Gardening
The year I thought nothing
could grow in my heart:
That was the year I met you
with everything blackened,
deadened inside me,
you took my heart,
held it in your hands, and
like a lover of gardens,
pulled out the weeds
that I thought had permanently
implanted themselves,
and replanted my love,
only to tend with water
and years of sunlight
the beauteous garden
that without you
we would never have
to pick from, to eat,
to admire.
Vibrancy
Life just the way I want to live it
even if it means
shooting out words
that no one else would say
because I’m me
and
I am wild
like the lions on the savannah
searching for food
that truly the cheetahs
have killed
but I’ll take it
if it means surviving
Life just the way I want to live it
even if it means
shooting out words
that everyone else wants to say
but won’t
I will because
I am wild
and no one can tame
the fire in my soul,
no one can bury this burden
of yearning that I hold,
so I must dig it out myself,
I must be myself.
Volcanic Magnificence
you and I, we are the volcano that
forms the igneous rock of our earth.
you may think this volcanic eruption
produces nothing but destruction.
but then why are the highest valued
properties (our glorious creations)
always at the foot of a volcano,
closest to peaceful, pristine beaches?
the perfect combination of hot magma
and cool sea breezes (you and I)
creates nothing less than the fertile
soil that brings forth magnificence.
even as we separate (as the lava blackens),
we can look back at the hibiscus flowers,
the banyan trees, the plants you’ll see nowhere else,
and know our creations will always connect us.
Apathy
what you and i lack is so obvious to me,
but paperwork blinds you from the truth.
i ache from illness, from distaste,
the acrid absence of your concern
resting on my tongue as if
i’ve been bitten by a venomous snake.
after one year of this nothing
has changed, and they will walk away
with little more than a few disconnected
terms rattling around in their brains,
burning me to my depths so that I am
unable to see the kindness in your eyes.
I will forgive you. After months apart
and casual hand waves in the hallway,
my ever-blossoming but always-behind
protégés tucked safely in another classroom,
I will look you in the eye, smile, nod,
and be forever content with my decision.
Blanket
Things that mystify me this morning:
clouds that brag of stubbornly stuck rain,
suggestions of an activity that
they then don’t want to participate in,
you.
Yes, you. At every chance you
leave me out in the cold,
procrastinate and passively aggress
your coexistence with mine.
Yet, you expect me to cut the threads
on every stitch that’s holding me together
to meet your needs, to cover you,
when I’ve barely enough warmth myself.
It’s all right. I know that you don’t know
how to sew, but really? Pick up a needle,
read a manual, buy some cloth, and
weave your threads into another blanket.
Mine’s taken.
Map
just when we thought you were ready for
eighth grade, the final year of middle school,
you whooped and hollered and sang along
to a show made for two-year-olds
we’re amazed at how accurately
you had the lyrics memorized,
how well you knew the story,
its characters implanted into your brains.
try to keep in mind, young ones,
that you are thirteen, just over a year
from the hard work of high school, and
Dora’s map will not be there to guide you through.
Mother Nature
when it’s a drought we curse the sky
when it pours we curse the clouds
when it’s cold we curse the snow
when it’s hot we curse the sun
if we took the time to see
that weather isn’t the enemy
then maybe we wouldn’t curse emptily,
but bask in Mother Nature’s glory
who, just like our own hardworking moms
gives us her products without any qualms
and shows us that sometimes what’s healthy is wanted
that without the need, we will always be haunted.
so when it’s a drought remember the rain
when it pours thank her for fruitful flowers
when it’s cold think of snow-melted rivers that
when it’s hot run cold into swim-ready lakes
and perhaps next time when the rain wrecks your day
or the snow makes your drive go a tad bit astray,
you’ll remember that it’s all for a reason,
that Mother Nature controls every season.
May Daughters
Mythili
With pride, you grin to show
your mouth with its bloody hole
(your first lost tooth),
palming the remnant of an apple
that you tuck behind your back
like a puppy hiding her tail
“That’s great. Where’s the tooth?”
Bewilderment clouds your smile.
“I swallowed it.”
“That’s too bad,” I try empathy,
but it has broken through your doubt,
and giant droplets of loss
form at the corners of your eyes.
We make a mad-dashed search for Blankey,
and soon you are in my lap,
cuddling your tears away
as if you were still my toddler,
not the soon-to-be-kindergartener
who has just reached another milestone.
Isabella
One evening of defiance
(its pursuing punishment causing
a head-thrusting tantrum into your pillow)
has led us to the deal we make today:
show me you can behave
and I will grant your wish.
Bribery is the secret that every parent keeps,
and you are mostly silent in the trailer
of our long bike ride,
asking only three questions
along the 41-mile route:
“Are we lost?”
“Are we almost there?”
“Can we stop at the playground?”
You follow along the Girl Scout activities,
budding in line and asking questions,
only twice intertwining your hand with your friend’s
to identify shapes in clouds, to dance,
and when the long day comes to and end,
I pull you into my arms,
whisper what you want to hear,
in three words forgiving us both.
Riona
Though the time is short,
you insist on helping make dinner rolls.
You and Mythili fight over
stirring the flour,
patting the dough,
and who gets to sit on the counter.
I’m as flustered as a
bird with broken wings,
hopping about around you
and trying to get the job done.
“I wish we had a kitchen with an island
so you girls could be on the other side.”
Your response is so simple.
“I wish we had a ping pong room in the
basement, but first we need a bigger basement.”
And just like that,
I have forgotten about my broken wings,
my flustered flurry.
I hand you the dough
that you round into a ball too small
and smile, my frenzy tucked
quietly behind me.
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