they may appear to be innocent:
barns white as new fallen snow,
idyllic as Mother Nature on
this absent-of-traffic meandering road.
in the early morning light, you
won’t hear the muffled sounds of death
clucking their way out of the
forever-closed doors and windows.
yet for half a mile or more, a circle
of stench radiates into the dewy dawn,
asking only that you take this memory
with you to the chicken aisle of the market.
no matter how many times
i strap on this helmet
measure my miles
and make these turns
riding on you is like
the first kiss that i have
kept trapped inside my
fantasies for so long
that my lips (legs) move
into yours as
deliciously as love, love,
love in its purest form.
Once, when the first was born,
every small smile, every night
of endless crying, brought weepiness
to my eyes and yearning to my
new-mother heart, and I thought there’d
be a time (a time for me, for us without them)
when things would be easier.
Now (and every day since that first birth,
those first strenuous and anxious nights)
I know better. The new-mother yearning
transforms into seasoned-mother longing
and I wish I could snatch back those
moments that I once wished would end,
trap them inside these ever-harder moments
of sibling battles, school-aged woes, and
still-sad-to-see-them-grow goodbyes.
Once, when the first came into the world,
every moment led to a new surprise, a
new milestone, a delighted set of new
parents and grandparents. Now, when
everything is old hat and three lives have
filled our own lives with their love, I know
that things will never be easier, that
every small smile, every night of endless
worrying, leads to a new level of longing.
with endless shade
to cover our car
and block the roaring
heat from ruining our picnic,
a friendly breeze to
tickle our skin as we
dash like flitting barn swallows
in and out of the
water whose shallow edge
feels like hot springs
on our multi-sized feet,
three bright-as-light life jackets
and a brand-new floatie
(on which we take turns,
carry the baby like she’s in
a bath, and hang from
like patient puppies next to mama),
we have concluded yet another
perfect Kentucky summer day.
This isn’t what I expected.
I imagined intolerable heat
(and it can be)
flat, muggified air
(sometimes it is)
and having to drive 55 miles
to get anywhere decent
(sometimes i just ride the bike instead).
Yes, it is what I expected.
But I didn’t know about
the rolling country roads
(an endless bike trail),
the diversified forests with
trees as gigantic as the
skyscrapers I’m accustomed to,
rivers and lakes and streams
around every corner that bear
bath-warm water to swim in
morning, noon, and night,
bridges that span the lakes,
rivers, and streams in a
magnificent rainbow of
mile-long architectural beauty,
state parks that have no entrance
fees, free hot working showers,
even swimming pools, hotels,
and golf courses, with grounds
maintained as impeccably as
upscale resorts, humidity that
allows me to breathe easier,
pedal faster, and keep my
contacts in all day long,
and
love for my new Kentucky home.
You will never know how perfectly pink
(like the cotton candy they crave) these
wisps of fluffy clouds above me dance as
my ears are filled with only the soft sounds
of arms dipping into the warm-then-cool water.
You will never taste the freshness of
this Kentucky lake (river), with the bass
biting at his bait, with the girls bobbing
up and down like lures alongside the kayak
while the sun pretends to bring coolness as it
sets behind the flood of hardwoods.
You will never have this moment (my moment)
with my face so sweetly exposed to the
southern sweet air, my ears gushing bubbles,
my heart wishing nothing more but
right now, right now, right now, because
you haven’t given in to the heat,
stripped down to your half-naked self,
and run into the water, remembering
(forgetting) for the first time
how to breathe.
In your eyes, though they’re hazel
(not deep pools of brown like mine)
I see myself, first when they roll, then
when they lead you into naughtiness,
and as much as I scold you, I know
in my heart I am only scolding myself.
I wish I could take your hand and truly
see the world through those beautiful eyes
of yours, interpreting the truth in a way
I can no longer understand, dancing and
laughing and knowing more than you
(we) should, just so that we could get along,
just so that we can enjoy each other’s company.
In your eyes, though they’re hazel
I see the flecks of brown that come out
darker every day, my lasting mark on you,
the permanence of our colors intertwined
as you dash about, determined (just like I am)
to create your (our) own destiny, letting no one
(even a mother) stop us from getting what we want.
on the road she told me not to take
i hug the white line
in a race against the sunset,
not used to the countryside
with its erratic traffic,
endless cornfields dotted
with day lilies as red-orange
as the sun behind me,
hills that curve and roll into
each other like waves of
rural nonchalance, and its
dangerous lack of streetlights.
with tunes popped in and
the golden glow of a busy day’s end
pushing me home, i beat
my average speed, sweat
dripping down me with as many
torrents as the rainfall that
left me drenched yesterday,
and I come into town, settle the
bike into place on the porch,
grinning at the silence of the
usually-loud streetlight across
the street, still dark in these last
few moments of light, basking in
these last few moments of the race I’ve won.
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.
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.
