poetry

February Daughters

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Riona

You were getting into bed last night
still waiting for us to cover you up
when you told me a story,
your three-and-a-half-year-old
version of a story

“I had to get my piwow
and then I saw that Snoopy wasn’t
he-ah, so I got Snoopy and
put him down they-ah,
and it’s my Snoopy not Isabewa’s
she thought he was hers
but that one’s mine.”

And I realize as I write this
that I have a poet
for my youngest daughter,
and if not a poet,
a poem.

Mythili

Holding your stomach all
through the crowded mall
you let me know
it was time to go
you rushed to the van
holding out your hand
“I need my blankey
I need my blankey”
the door opened wide
and you dashed inside
five minutes couldn’t pass
with your eyes turning glass
your fingers curled silk
like it was mother’s milk
your lids relaxed
sleep came fast
and all was calm in Mythili land
because of the blankey in your hand.

Isabella

Turning seven to you
means a tea party
filled with pink cupcakes
and a houseful of girls
daintily sipping from china cups
only to abandon the table
for screaming pursuits
of chopped-up white snowflakes
foam doilies and spilled glitter glue,
cat chasings and scavenger hunts
whose competition almost drew blood
a smile on your face
as you hand out goodie bags
blow out your candles
and remark more than once,
“Three hours is not long enough.”

Happy birthday my love,
my first child
whose energy fills our lives
for every waking moment.

On Valentine’s Day

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here we are
in our pajamas
munching on
leftover tea sandwiches
(mozzarella tomato,
tuna salad,
strawberry cream cheese)
before six o’clock
on Valentine’s Day

just hours beyond
a house filled with girls
in dress-up clothes
(dresses with puffy sleeves
and hems at the ankles)
who sipped from
white china cups
and licked pink
cream cheese frosting
off heart-shaped
red velvet cupcakes.

there are five of us now,
poor Daddy outnumbered
(even the dog is a girl)
and we share a box
of chocolates for dessert
given to our oldest daughter
(who celebrated seven years today)
by her boyfriend,
each girl picking out
a different fruity flavor.

and I think, as my youngest
takes a bite she doesn’t like and
brings her chocolate to my lips,
how unromantic this is,
yet
so very filled with love
on Valentine’s Day.

Apology

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oh, this is boring to you?
you would rather we not watch this video?
I would like to see your friends taken away
one by one
only for you to discover the gaseous
infusions that steal the air from their lungs
after weeks, months, years
without more than gruel to eat,
whips on backs,
clothingless filth
and no parents to cry to
(they are already gone)

boring, you say?
because you are so busy
sneaking to the restroom
to slip in a text, send a photo,
and check on your layers of makeup,
to be sure your revived 80’s
leggings look just right under the
mini skirt that barely covers your ass?

let me apologize.
I didn’t mean to plan six weeks
of lessons about tolerance,
history,
and revelations of truth
that should shock you to the core.

what I meant to do was
strip you of your identity,
call you names that only Satan would repeat,
demoralize you in front of your peers and the world,
and murder every person you’ve ever loved.

then maybe, just maybe,
you might come into my class,
sit quietly in your seat,
be grateful for every carefree moment
you’ve been handed by the
generations before you who were not carefree,
and let the tears that have been hiding inside you
slowly,
slowly,
slide down your cheeks.

Momentum

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in science we learn about momentum.
we watch videos of soap box derbies,
balls bouncing,
rockets blasting into space,
and the mathematical formula seems so simple:
mass times velocity equals momentum

but I am a linguist
and all I can think about is
the root movere,
to move
which is simpler to understand
and describes,
in its perfect infinitive form,
what you do to me.

My Stunning Flowers

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I carry inside myself the desire to be better,
to always sit with you and help you find every
place where your puzzle pieces go,
to tell you, yes, forty minus three is thirty-seven,
to play family while I hold the piggy and you hold the koala

and not to wash these dishes
not to gather my breakfast ingredients
or set up my morning coffee,
not to look at the computer for just one moment

I think how you will be as women
falling in love
going off to college
calling to tell me about your first real jobs
and I both despise and relish these thoughts

I look forward to that time, to sharing
my life with you in a different way,
to see how you’ve blossomed
from the beauty of your youth into the
three unique flowers that I know you will become.

but now I struggle with my evenings,
my tense moments of tomorrow’s prep work,
my need to have a break when you are sleeping
in the brief time between your bedtime and mine

and I know that what I sacrifice is my vision of your future
and the interminable guilt that will mingle
with the sadness you will carry in your hearts,
the longing all of us will have for these moments,
these precious moments without which
you will never be the stunning flowers I have imagined.

Patriotism Then and Now

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my mother and I,
we’re here behind a World War II vet
who sits on a stool as we wait in line
(it folds up into a cane)
and I think
it’s Memorial Day
and I remember both grandfathers
already buried,
their triangularly folded flags
now tucked away
just as the quills we are about to see
have been put to rest

he smiles, chuckles,
shakes the tour guide’s hand
and introduces his children,
grandchildren, great-grandchildren
who have all driven here from Baltimore
so he can see this

we enter Independence Hall
and my mother takes my hand
for just one second
but it is long enough
(almost long enough)
and as the tour guide leads us into the room
where six feet in front of us
the founding fathers swore to thirty years of secrecy
pledging their honor
for the greater good,

I see the veteran take off his hat
and wipe his eyes with the back of his hand
(I can almost feel him wiping mine)
and I think how my mother hasn’t said
one unkind or critical word all weekend
and how modestly George Washington
won a war and spoke words and led the country
and how all these years later we are still
trying to defend what was written in this room

while the tour guide struts with a framed,
fake version of the longest lasting laws
any country has ever known,
and the vet puts his hat back on,
puts his arm around his wife,
and leads his family into the beautiful sunshine
of the city of brotherly love,
another generation of freedom fighters
listening to every precious word he has left.

Grandma (One Day is Not Enough)

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I know you’re still here but I’ve already lost you—
you are not the same person who handed out hugs
as if your arms couldn’t function without being around us;
you argue now like an obstinate three-year-old
and spout words that sting till tomorrow’s sunrise,
though by then you’ve already forgotten them.

I miss those days when I’d curl crying in my bed
swallowing the salty remarks my mother had thrown at me
and being able to wipe away the tears only
because I thought of you, kisses bursting from your lips,
taking us to the beach, asking us what we wanted
for every meal the week before we arrived,
sharing your own tears on my cheeks when we left.

Every summer you took us shopping at the best bargain stores
and outfitted us in the newest styles for the school year
and taught us how to pick parsley and basil from the herb garden
and how to sauté garlic, onions, and carrots for the marinara
and how to boil steamers for just a few minutes,
then dip the clams in butter and let them slide down
our throats, their taste lingering of the sea you’ve always loved.

We exchanged letters for years, your scrawling cursive writing
filled with your beliefs about my schooling,
my boyfriends, and your Catholic upbringing,
touching my heart with your love just as much as
the gifts and cards you sent for my birthdays
all the way into my adult years.

I know you’re still here, but I’ve already lost you
and when I think about the phone calls I forget to make
or the confusion in your voice when we speak,
I recall my childhood, your ever-affectionate presence
the sweet happiness that I forever longed for,
and though I feel old and alone and sometimes lost along with you,
I still carry your Italian black hair on my head,
your sauce recipe in my memory,
and the remnants of your soul within my soul.

Running

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I find myself always running
always trying to be stunning
dashing from place to place
at a speed-demon pace
but when I need to take some time
I lose myself, forget the rhyme
I need to stop and look things over
evaluate and take it slower

slow and steady is the pace
that never comes across my face
because if I don’t beat my time
I fear that I will lose my prime
I’ll have to give up part of me
and never see the real beauty
of what it takes to truly stop
put my mind on my spinning top
and realize that fastest isn’t best
that sometimes what I need is rest.

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?

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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.