poetry

Greener Pastures

/ lovizmytrio / Leave a comment

you are not what i thought
and it’s tearing me up
though for once i won’t
say a word about it

but i am disappointed
having to come home this way
trying to shed the mood
that infiltrates my daughter

her exhausted screams
echo through the house
so that i cannot hear
the others’ gurgling happiness

in my soul i reach for her
but my hands, my arms are here
because i’m burned right now
and she’ll sizzle at my touch.

it’s not you, but my blindness,
my greener pastures journey
that has led me right back to
where i never wanted to be again.

as if she knows this, she calls out
in panting gasps, searching for
an answer, a reason, that neither
of us will ever be able to find.

Baggage

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what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
four spinning wheels for
simple maneuvering in and out of doors,
a handle that slid up and down with the
smooth ease of young love,
straps for easy carrying on the back
(thickly padded, covered in felt)

nothing like the heavy sets of mismatched
baggage, beaten from too many travels,
wheelless and torn, strapless and with
handles that break out blisters on palms,
identifiable only by their massive weight,
their inability to fit easily into anyone’s trunk,
that everyone else, now older,
carries with them into relationships.

what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
inside it we rolled up our
running socks, fuzzy pajamas,
pants for every season, swimsuits and gloves,
and packed ourselves a trip that would
far surpass the one that the people
around us told us not to take.

What He Does

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What he does if you need to know
(really? it’s been five years)
is wake up one morning girl
and two obstinately not-morning girls
arguing with them to
go to the bathroom, get dressed,
eat breakfast, brush teeth,
and get out the door
before most people have left for work.

Alone, because I have usually
left already to enjoy a bike ride to school
(something he allows me to do
every day if I want, without question)
and even if they don’t want to do
any of it, with his patient words,
his no-nonsense attitude,
he convinces them to obey.

What next? You’d be amazed.
Takes Mythili back and forth
to preschool, setting timers for
snack and show-and-tell reminders,
grocery shopping with Riona in tow,
plans a menu that is healthy
(and that they’ll all eat, and that
we can afford), cooks and does dishes,
sets out my morning coffee and oatmeal,
cleans the house top to bottom every Friday,
(have you ever seen Dad use a vacuum?)
budgets and pays all our bills,
takes the girls to the park,
the zoo, the museum,
sets up play dates
and manages homework.

All without one critical word,
with the sensitive nurturing
every child needs and deserves,
all so that our evenings are calm,
relaxed, child-filled (not errand-filled),
so that we have a home, not a house.

What does he do, you ask?
Have you not seen our spotless home,
tasted our delectable dinners,
thrived on his technological advice,
and witnessed firsthand those
small arms reaching out for Daddy?

Let me apologize.
Perhaps you have not been blinded by love,
or perhaps in your narrow world of
work, work, work,
you have forgotten (or never knew)
what a happy family,
a perfect husband,
looks like.

I Could Have Skipped This

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I could have skipped this
but then I would have missed
the sunrise glistening
like a sparkling curtain,
opening today’s show
(carried by wind that
pushes against me, a
wall I will fight now
for the pat on the back
later today)

I could have skipped this
but then I would have missed
the absences she’s had,
the plight of the struggling student
who so demurely
will not ask for help
(but will accept the
help I offer her)

I could have skipped this
but then I would have missed
the smiles on their faces
as they took turns riding
the scooter round and round,
the perfect homemade ice cream
dripping happiness from their chins,
(the memory that I created
with a spontaneous choice)

I could have skipped this
but then I would have missed
the chance to make
a lesson that will enlighten
them, make each of us stronger,
and create the collaboration
that guides them to the
success every student deserves.

I could have skipped this…
but then I would have missed
the life that I have chosen
because I didn’t skip this.

In This Moment

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in this moment

I can find the pace I need to get me there stronger
Mythili can “read” a whole page in her elaborate story
Riona can say “I wuv you” seven times
Isabella can brush her top teeth by herself

and someone on the other side of the world
or right across town
is giving birth to a perfectly healthy baby
while another lost soul is pointing a gun to his head

in this moment

I can hear Alanis Morisette motivating my pedals
my students can see twenty pictures on Google
of the cedar trees they’ve never heard of
the teachers can track me down for brownies

and someone right across town
or on the other side of the world
is pounding a woman’s skull into the drywall,
while another is handing a ten-year-old his first pair of shoes.

in this moment

I will live
I will love
I will remember what I have
what we all have
(somewhere within us)

Baby Number One

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standing next to my bike
(baby number one)
just before sunrise
I adjust the straps on the saddlebag
and ask myself why I
didn’t pack gloves

the door clicks open
swings shut
forcing my heart rate to
race as if I’ve already begun
the uphill ride

my breath spills out
in gray wisps of
below freezing air as
I take a step around the corner
to see what has materialized

there she stands
barefoot in
her polar bear purple pajamas
her fuzzy morning braids
dangling on either side of her
grinning face, her arms out

“I came to say good-bye.”
I reach for my should-be-asleep
daughter, wrapping my warmth
around her shivering skin,
my always-a-morning-person girl,
my baby number one.

Soles (Souls)

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I will remember when I complain
of my aching feet,
my seemingly disconnected joints,
those tiny porters
(miniature gods)
who didn’t have the money
to go to the fancy running store
and have their strides analyzed,
buying new sneakers
for $100 to relieve the
pounding of pavement on soles (souls)

I will remember when I complain
the three overstuffed backpacks
they each strapped to their narrow backs,
the recycled tires
that didn’t cover the exposed soles (souls)
on their small, Peruvian feet,
the cans of propane and three dozen eggs
they carried in each hand
as they raced up the mountain
in front of us tired tourists,
setting up twenty tents, hot tea, and cookies
before any of us could make
half a step up the million along the Inca trail.

I will remember when I complain
that this is easy,
that anyone could run a half marathon,
that the weight I carry will never match
the burden of poverty
that pushes them beyond human strength
to the top of the mountain,
to the ruins famous worldwide,
to the place where we should all be equal,
where history plus nature creates a masterpiece,
the place where our souls (soles) may rest.

Tea Party

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don’t say you missed me when
every other day of the year
you swim in a pool of your own apathy
(while I drown in it)
and my bitterness rises to the top
floating in a foggy black cloud
as you dive in, trying to break through
and circle the currents until
you reach a depth where
I sit, criss-cross applesauce,
setting up my tea party just like
my first grade swim lessons,
holding my breath while simultaneously
showing you the talents
that you will never discover
because you never took the time
to dive deep, deep, deep enough.

Invalids

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we are a pair of invalids,
her with a bright red eye under a bag of tea,
me with swollen ankle under a bag of ice,
sharing our stories of sickness,
her version vibrant and missing-school excited,
mine grumpy and old just like me,
both of us waiting till the timer beeps,
the medicine comes off,
and we are ready to heal.

For the Ring Master

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everyone posted pics of Easter today
(some writing religious messages),
children in brightly colored dresses
or sweater vests searching for eggs
(me, too, the girls holding up candy
treasures and invading each other’s baskets)
some were bright-eyed babies, others
older kids who knew the game too well,
diving for eggs under trees or behind bushes,
their rainbow of baskets an afterthought in their palms.

but my favorites had to be my cousin
with his glaringly orange, silk-flowered,
feather-to-the-sky top hat, tinted orange glasses,
and his springy head-to-toe pink explosion of
daffodils, scarves, and feminine-beauty partner,
and their “gay meth lab,” (dyeing eggs that I
see hanging from a tree in the background)
for all the beauty of love, diversity of celebration,
for the “Ring Master of the gayest Easter on Earth!”
for a new rainbow of love on this holiday.