poetry

The Fierce Heat of Living

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(Inspired by David Whyte)

How do I survive in the fierce heat of living?
by taking her hand within my own
and dashing across the stalemate parking lot
on our way to our next adventure,
plucking up her sisters (trapping their
thrilled screams in boxes)
to ride a bike behind my new two-wheel rider,
to ride a plastic horse for a penny,
to choose another fantasy from the library,
everything free (almost free)
just like the way life was, once,
before we knew better.

How do I survive in the fierce heat of living?
by taking her hand within my own
and dashing into the blue moon night
on our way to our next adventure,
plucking off our clothes (trapping their
tangled mess in piles)
to scream out into the darkness
to roll our nakedness in the snow
to choose another fantasy from our minds,
everything free (almost free)
just like the way life is, now,
because we know better.

Six-Penny Happiness

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A lackluster errand to the bank
(located inside the grocery store)
seems tedious as I sit in the driver’s seat
of my compact car with three
antsy girls who unbuckle themselves,
scratch the back dash,
bang on the window
as I count quarters that have
spilled out of their paper sleeve
(I lost $1.50 in the depths
of Hyundai oblivion)

They are seven, five, three,
and don’t attempt to contain
the excitement that bursts at
the thought of what is to come:
a free kid’s cookie for each,
a slice of orange meant to entice
paying customers (that they will
suck the juice from and abandon),
and the pennies they’ve discovered
(in their search for quarters) that
will pay for six rides on the horse.

They take turns, maneuvering from
tail to saddle to head to leg,
the shiny plastic horse never
moaning under their ample weight,
and every time another penny is inserted,
a new wave of thrilled screams erupts,
making this six-cent endeavor (this
tedious, hideous errand) worth more to me
(to them) than a million dollars that
I will never have to count (or spend)
to bring them happiness.

Ready for Summer

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Snow fell in circular wet flurries
as I drove to work this morning
(not even sticking to the road)
making everyone drive just a bit slower

I revved the engine, seeing no ice,
my mind on the last picture I saw
flash on my desktop (the one of us
all in the swan boat in Providence)

my hair was too short and we were
sleeveless under the scorching sun
grins popping out our cheeks,
eyes squinting to block the rays

The snow will slink away by noon
and summer will still be on my mind
as I sit in my windowless world of work,
keeping my hot imagery close, ready.

Swallowing Our Sadness

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After two gloriously quiet hours,
they are ready for the flourless cake
that this time (after multiple envious complaints)
I have made just for them.

They emerge from the family room
after watching The Velveteen Rabbit,
tears streaming down their
reddened-with-sadness cheeks.

“What’s the matter, don’t you want cake?”
Daddy asks, his voice dripping with confusion.
“The movie was so sad.” Sobs erupt
from their throats and trap any more anxious words.

“Really? What’s it about?” he asks, never having seen it.
As I begin to describe the rabbit becoming Real
(Isabella chimes in about the high fever)
their tears find their way into my own eyes.

I look at the three pained faces of my girls
who for the first time have been touched to tears
by a movie, and I wonder if I’m crying because of
the story or because they’re now old enough to understand it.

Either way, as I slice up the cake
that they take tiny bites of and abandon,
swallowing their sadness with delectability,
I am not able to swallow my own sadness.

Before I have even had a chance to stop time,
I have a houseful of growing-up girls
who reminded me today how precious
every bite of cake, every rite of passage, can be.

Recipe for a Red-Letter Day

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It’s simple, really:
you mix together two kind deeds,
a pinch of humor,
a measured amount of patience,
and bake.

The temperature
can range between
fifty-five and seventy,
but we’ll just say, “room”
because you’ll need it.

Out of the oven
they will pop like kernels
unable to contain themselves,
crouching down
in whispered excitement,
trying not to disrupt your day.

And in the same glorious moment
that they pass the thanks
and share how they paid it forward,
you will take a taste
of your recipe.

It will linger on your tongue
and tingle its way down your throat,
skipping over
your digestive tract
and resting
in the center of your heart.

Runaway

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Red-and-white-striped shirted
Teddy bear in hand
(his name later became Todd),
I threw an outfit into a bag
and stomped out of the house,
walking up the hill to the only
place I knew to go—
the elementary school.

With my bull horns
shining, I didn’t even look back
until I heard the rumbling
of the rusty blue Datsun
and my mother’s
screaming-banshee voice
telling me to get inside.

I don’t recall what the
original argument was over,
just that she had
raised her voice one
too many times that day,
and my six-year-old patience
had come to a bitter end.

At dinner that night,
she tried to hug me
and sternly whispered in my ear,
“Don’t you ever do that again,”
but her arms were stiff boards,
her skin was as cold as the wind on my walk,
her voice was icy glass,
and I knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

Capt(ive)

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we are a captive audience
and you are trying to explain
the word captivating to them
as if it’s only a positive experience

but I know the root: capt
which means caught
and that’s how I am
in this back seat
behind the back row

unable to speak the definition
aloud to you
though even to myself
I can’t say why
(I can’t say why I
want to disappear)

the students listen to your
explanation and you,
being their teacher,
have convinced them
of its truth, its beauteous
seduction of words.

in a way, I know you are right:
we are all captivated by
the words from your mouth,
the quiet classroom you maintain,
the definitions you provide.

what I mean to say
(though I won’t)
is that (I) we are caught here,
our own words captured
(same root)
somewhere inside our souls,
waiting to be released.

Decisions, Decisions

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What can I capture from today?

The angry parent email
with threat to principal and
superintendent, all over a book
she shouldn’t have read
(for surely she didn’t understand
its genuine meaning)?

The morose groans of CSAP prep
and note-taking
that I put my students through
year after year
(yet do they listen)?

Or

The perfect rectangle of dough
rolled and ready to fill
with a mix of scallions, dill,
butter, garlic, and parsley
(everything already chopped)
laid out by my husband’s hands?

The well-behaved seven-year-old
daughter who carried in posters,
collected pennies for tastes,
sat listening to every presentation
and (for once)
asked permission before every request?

The gutak herb fritters
and sour cream, cider vinegar,
lemon-pepper sauce
that filled everyone’s faces
with smiles and everyone’s
stomachs with thanks?

The choice,
just like my fretful decision to bake,
my too-young-to-be-married decision to marry,
my too-early-for-grandkids decision to have them anyway,
is obvious.

Dear Mother

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Dear Mother,

I know you think
that being a Girl Scout
troop leader means
I can be nothing less
than a perfect role model.

But underneath every
perfectly polite
member of society
lie the cusses,
frustration,
and brutal honesty
that you hate
for me to share.

Can I have a place
to fully expose
myself
without worrying about
what you think

considering

you never could take
the time away from your
(true love) work to be
MY
Girl Scout troop leader,
but rather,
were a cussing, raging,
violent mother
behind closed doors?

Love,
Daughter

P.S.: Thank you
for taking the time
to see me for who
I really am
and, alas,
relentlessly criticizing me.

Heart

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out on her sleeve,
plain as day on her face
she wears her heart
torn into bits
that spatter him with
the love she craves

but oblivion blinds him
from what he can’t understand
(she can’t understand)
and the salty droplets
mix with the blood
(the love?)
so that she can’t wash it away

his obsession preoccupies
the heart that he should hand over
and though she tries
to bait her hook
with the right words,
he doesn’t bite
(oh but he bites)

and she pines,
pieces sliding down her cheeks,
sleeve shredded,
for him to
spread open his lids,
catch her wounded words,
and restore her heart.