poetry

My Own Middle Place

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Please tell me why
when I read books like The Middle Place
I think of you and want to scream,
to relive my childhood:
I want a do-over

I don’t want the rants and raves
the banging on doors
the sharks in your eyes
swimming at me with their
hatchets of hatred

I want a mother who could cuddle
with me on the couch,
read me stories while I curl up,
thumb in mouth,
and before the sun even sets
share a moment of joy with me

not one who’s so obsessed
with the food that has to
go on the table that she
trades her smiles for sour looks
before even closing the door at work

Please tell me why I can’t have
that imaginary childhood,
why I cannot gratify my memories
with some sort of happiness
that will last beyond
the closing of this book,

a place where I am comforted,
I am safe,
a place where I know my mother
loves me,
a place where she has shed her tiger’s skin
and wrapped her arms
around my aching soul.

Catch Me a Moon

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catch me a moon once meant
fix my broken heart
(at sixteen, when in pieces
my heart’s only remedy were
the silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon now means
give me a moment
(a moment to myself, to bike,
to run, to remedy stress
with silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon was a story
I wrote (and memorized,
reciting its words as I tackled
giant hills on my way to school
under silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon is a poem
I write (holding my mended heart
as I rediscover the well-lit path
that will carry me—carry all of us—
as we reach for silver splashes of light.

Summoning Spring

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pedals taking me there
the horizon beckons
on either side of my tires

from the west, golden,
hidden under a mask of clouds
the glowing coin of night
settles itself onto a bed of
snowcapped mountain peaks,
the city’s glittering lights
quilting the mattress of spring

from the east, silver,
hidden under a mask of clouds
the flashing fish of morning
prances into a pool of
aquamarine divinity,
the black-roofed suburban homes
splashing the tides of spring.

pedals taking me there
the horizons beckon
the divine hands that
summon spring’s sunrise
on both sides of my tires.

Every Moment

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I remember nights without sleep
and cries without consolation
diaper bags and strollers a must
for even the simplest outings

now their once-wispy hair is
tied back in tight braids and
their cries are aimed at each other
with bitter words to match.

a blur it’s been, baby years gone,
relinquished first to toddlerhood
and now we’re full-on childhood
their lives zipping by me

before I can even sit on the swing
with their daddy and reminisce
the time that is happening now,
they will be all grown up.

(I will remember this when I
hold my hand to a feverish forehead,
when they pitch a fit and act their age,
when I think every moment is too much)
because every. moment. counts.

Adrenaline

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it’s amazing how the smallest thing
can pump a mother’s adrenaline—
a scream, a weak call, a fever
(not my own, but the listless look
of a sick child)

it rushes in, takes control
of my body until it transforms
to hand-jittering fear.
the moment passes
but as long as I’m a mother
the adrenaline will be there
hiding like fog on my soul,
waiting for its next chance
to smother me as I reach
to protect her.

Black Bicycle Tires

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At sixteen
(almost seventeen)
I wrote in my journal:
“Busiest street in the city
a solid two days in a row
you crossed it in between
rushes of cars, slow uphill
in gray breath-spilling morning,
heated gasps down the slope in the afternoon.

‘God is sending me miracles!’
you scream out, because
nothing moves as quickly
as black bicycle tires
when it’s almost summer.”

At thirty-one
(almost thirty two),
I write in my journal:
“Silver or magenta,
mountain or road,
black bicycle tires
erase the pain
before and behind me,
a majestic blur of
rubber on pavement,
a remedy for adolescence,
adulthood,
life.

Face

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Without this, we wouldn’t be here today—
I would still carry the guilt
that hovered ghostlike in my soul
for eight harrowing years
and you would still not know
what it was I had done to you
(some might say that’s better)

but you and I, we both know
that the blemish I could never
quite cover up bumped out
on the face of our love and your
discovery became the astringent
we both needed to wash it away.

now we face our future together
you with the phantom of a beard,
me with my imperfect (but so
loved by you) freckled skin,
and I know that without this…
(pain? grief? remorse?)
we wouldn’t know how to face
whatever will come tomorrow.

Reality Check

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What is real?
Transformation of stuffed animal to live one?
Something that is truly authentic?
An emotion that brings forth great sentiment?

It could be anything
in the media’s eyes:
Made with real fruit!
Real cheddar in every (highly modified) bite!
Parenting advice from real moms!
Water from a real spring!

It makes me wonder:
if everything they’re saying is real,
have we been eating fake fruit,
synthetic cheddar,
growing up with alien mothers,
and drinking from the ocean?

Someone ought to write
a real poem to clarify this
(maybe we need a real poet?).

Parenting

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with prime rib (though it’s not a holiday)
the Riesling I love
three kids who eat their dinner
(for once)
a conversation that is multifaceted
and has not a hint of anger,
I am happy (so happy)
for the family that I have
for the family (though at times
I feel plagued by them)
that I love
(the parents who stayed
together through the tough times,
who buy and cook whole foods
who don’t force their beliefs upon me,
who love my kids,
who raised me to be strong,
to be the parent,
the best parent, that I can be).

Ten Haikus for 2010

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Only in Denver
do we enjoy seventy
degrees and then snow.

Running eight hot miles
is easier than having
to say no to you.

Watching Grease again
I wonder if I’m being
their very best mom.

Screaming loud children
are like daffodils: better
when the sun is out.

Two dark chocolate cakes,
one happy hour, zero
days of school: perfect.

Parents who dislike
teachers should home-school their kids
and stop degrading.

Girls wearing dresses
are rainbows shining brightly
after the downpour.

Family is a gift
and also a sacrifice
that makes us complete.

Television steals
moments that we should share to
make the world better.

Spring is a wild breeze
that ushers out winter’s cold
and blows in summer.