poetry

Where I Am From

/ lovizmytrio / 2 Comments

I am from a tire swing that never stops
a stone wall made by hand
to match the house with the crown molded ceilings
(I can still see the corona of flowers)
window panes as thin as ice
(and covered with it too)
thick foam shutters that my mom
decorated a different color in every room,
choosing fabrics to match the walls
(sewing with her ladylike hands and expertise)

I am from early mornings before dark
the backseat of a brown Nova
hot coffee spilling on the vinyl
on the way to the newspaper
and the babysitter who lived next
to the pig farm
(I loved to hold those piglets)

I am from a lonely empty house
and Flint Creek, full of black snakes in summer
covered in ice for skating
and sledding down the banks in winter
and the swamp behind the schoolyard
(surely too dangerous for Jen and I)
that sucked a shoe off my foot
in a quicksand moment that my penniless
mother would never forgive
(it was pink and blue—I was six)

I am from “Now that you’re old enough”
(chores that never ended)
to “That’s enough”
(sister fights that left scars)
and “That’s not the way you do it”
(snatches of mop, rag, vacuum, glass)

I am from the Dowlings but with the Jordan blood
(and it’s that blood that stings)
hand-me-down shoes, shirts, and bicycles,
the store that sold Bazooka gum for three cents
and fireballs for ten

I am from Dewey Avenue (do we or don’t we?)
the secret steps that led to Jen’s house
parents whose work stole them from me
and the maple that stood in the yard
holding the tire swing with one loyal limb
shading the upstairs porch we slept on all summer
growing there before I ever came into this world
(and I know it’s still there, waiting for me to remember,
to always remember, where I am from)

Can’t I Be a Little Bitter?

/ lovizmytrio / Leave a comment

Bitter, me? You’re forgetting that I went through this last year. YOU didn’t. Can’t I be a little bitter? Can’t I complain just a bit, please? Do YOU have your entire family dependent on YOUR salary? Can you afford to lose $300 in a month, times three? Because I can barely pay my bills with what money I make. And even if I do have my job again next year, I will have to go through all of this again. But if I get moved to another school, which I probably will, I will have to spend extra money on gas and car maintenance. It may not seem like a lot, but it is when the entire spending money my family has in a month is less than $100. What am I supposed to do when my daughters need new shoes or have to go to the dentist? How is our family supposed to sacrifice any more than what we have already sacrificed? Do YOU know what that’s like to go from two salaries to one, to live on $37,800, only slowly rising to $50,000, which has barely made it tolerable to support us all? Have YOU ever had to decide between paying exorbitant medical bills or going into debt over health insurance costs?

Can’t I be a little bitter? Can’t I come to the place I work and share camaraderie with people who are all frustrated, downtrodden, stressed, and where the morale is lower than it’s been in years, and say what I think? Say how I am feeling without you smiling to my face and going behind my back and complaining to my boss and making me cry for three days and feel that my entire character has been destroyed in front of the person who is responsible for me having a job???

Can’t I be a little bitter? At least you know who I am, know what I think, and never question the validity of what I say and the truth of my soul. I don’t hide who I am from anyone, and if you can’t handle it, tell me, leave the conversation, relate it to a friend who can approach me, fuck, send me an anonymous note. But don’t backstab me when our employers, the recession, the taxpayers, the state are already twisting a knife into each of our backs.

Oh, did you think I was bitter before? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

A Mother’s Guilt

/ lovizmytrio / 3 Comments

Are mothers destined to be plagued by guilt
that stems from houses we’ve carefully built?
Can we escape remorse from what we do?
Can we give to them and to ourselves too?
When a child is sick and I sleep all night
my heart feels a pain that’s tugging and tight
Guilt flows from the money that I bring back
from work that whispers to me what I lack:
Time with them to be the one who attends
and in the dark of night, to make amends.

Am I destined to be harassed with shame
as I search my soul for what desires blame?

Kids’ Pics Then and Now

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Just like when I was a child, they’re obsessed
with examining pictures of themselves
and
there are only a few minuscule differences
between what they see and what I saw

I used to creep into the hall closet
and lug our wood- and cardboard-bound
construction-paper-filled albums
down from the shelf,
curl on the couch, knees crossed,
opening the pages so many times
that the punched holes holding them in place
began to tear by age nine,
the photo stickers began to peel off by eleven,
and as a teenager, the books
were almost too fragile to touch.

Now, in fifteen seconds,
I open up the laptop, command-click
five albums and then the black triangle,
choose a playlist that they all enjoy,
and watch as they, mesmerized,
view a three-seconds-per-pic slideshow
with dissolve, bubble, and fade—in effects
that I never could have imagined
when I was their age.

Just like when I was a child, they’re obsessed
with examining pictures of themselves
and
I think how much children are still the same
while the world around us is so strikingly different.

My Dearest Hyundai Accent

/ lovizmytrio / 1 Comment

Dear Hyundai,

You have seen better days. Once you had only a small crack that stretched along the bottom of your windshield, never interfering with anyone’s view of the road. Now it has expanded, curving around the passenger’s side like a snake searching for its food, stopping just shy of the center so that the driver can still see.

Once you had a smooth exterior, your silver paint unmarred, your skeleton strong and resilient. Now my sister and I have beaten you, pushing a dent into your back right side, scratching the skin from your back bumper, pounding a tree that knocked off your front bumper which is now attached with plastic zip ties, and tearing your headlight off with an unfortunate scrape with the garage door, destroying both your interior lights and the garage door in the process.

When it’s dark in the morning and I must flip on the upper light in order to see how fast I’m driving or which way to adjust the thermostat, I can’t help but smile every time. You and I, we know where we’re headed, no matter how fast.

I steal glances at the odometer from time to time, and after nine and a half years with me, and two years with the person whose dust-cover over the dash has left permanent glue marks, you are just now close to 100,000 miles. I can’t tell you how proud that makes me.

You have seen better days. But in all these years, my Hyundai, my tiny compact car that with the right effort fits three little girls, car seats and all, in the back seat, you have taken me everywhere I’ve needed to go. And you have done so with no more than $700 in repair bills, no trumping of another car’s beauty, no less than thirty miles per gallon, and never a complaint from me.

Love,
Your Faithful Driver

Soul Searching

/ lovizmytrio / 1 Comment

soul, where are you?
are you hidden inside the air of my lungs?
are you squeezing between my intestines?
are you burning through my veins,
following each blood cell to its capillary?
if I poke a needle deep enough into
my internal organs, my stomach, my liver,
will you escape and leave me lifeless?

or are you only in my mind,
somewhere embedded in a wrinkle
of cerebellum tissue,
whispering to the rest of me
that you are here, here, here,
that you will always be here,
in the darkness and the light,
the sorrow that follows the fight?

is it my heart where you hide?
beating your way out with each
strained pump of blood?
soul, I search for you sometimes
and cannot find where you have hidden yourself
though I know, somewhere within,
you will guide me, give me what I need,
and bring me to the fate that you have chosen for me.

Step Write Up

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This year I run into writing
even when it brings me pain
because pain breeds good writing
even when it brings me criticism
because criticism makes me more determined
even when I’m too tired to write
because lack of sleep is inspirational
even when I feel it’s going nowhere
because it always goes to me
even when I hate what I put in words
because no words are ever wasted

This year I am stepping write up
and revising who I am.