thirty-three mile ride
sunflowers to skyscrapers
all on a bike path
if this isn’t home
to find yourself on two wheels
Denver beckons you
no pictures today
tires spin too fast to stop
memory stores love
renewal
Be the Begonia
they question motives
as all good scientists should
will their stems sun-stretch?
be the begonia
is this year’s inspiration
its difference is clear
not heart-shaped wither
soil-sensitive to live
pretty, yes, but weak
mother-in-law tongues
that survive a hundred years
don’t bend toward the sun
but my begonia?
a gift given before Spain?
it lives beyond dreams
be the begonia
not the wanton bamboo sprout
the sun seeks your strength
First Day of School
seven weeks of prep
goal: teach like a champion
with few words, won them
nervous girls ready
for school year beginning buzz
i cry inwardly
this is never easy
each new year a renaissance
soon i’ll shed feathers
Endlessly
with golden eyelashes he sleeps
after telling the Martian story
to which only Mythili would listen
black and dark makeup-less beauty
that none of us can understand,
the one who said three months back
that she’s most like me
(all i thought of were the endlessly
imaginative doll stories, and how i hated
dolls) only to realize that
my most responsible proactive middle child
had me pegged
and how can i sum up an August Friday?
it would begin with carrying
an ever-bending begonia
through three hallways
and six sets of stairs
my endlessly flamboyant classroom colleague
holding the admin parking door open
to ask
why are women so needy?
is this why i don’t like them?
before the sun has even completely
emerged from Colorado clouds
it would end with pumpkin pie
burning up my no-a/c house
and my baby’s hands weaving
bits of crust
over her apple pie dream
as expertly as she did at age three
when Thanksgiving meant more to me
than any other holiday
in the middle, with my middle child?
school posters and schedule nightmares,
the signage of every teacher,
where i walk into that school
and every capillary in my body
is pumping blood for students
i haven’t even met
a meeting, a speech that makes me
want to hug my enemy
and wish that last year
could have been mine
ours
and the end-of-day email
blasting me
in ALL CAPS
for putting my students first
even if HE WOULDN’T
Mythili, Mythili, Mythili
who was born a writer like me
a crone before her time
whose head turned towards me on day two
how could i not know
after the
twin-in-looks-forever-defiant-Izzy
and
shy-as-a-cactus-in-December Riona
how could i not see myself in her?
the pie is in the oven
and 24 people will populate
the space between an 1864 ditch
and the playground of my youth
before i can even blink
my baby has turned 8
and we will have pie.
apple. lattice top composed
by nothing-like-me Riona.
pumpkin. requested by
my twin, Mythili.
whipped cream. to spray
in mouth of endlessly-flamboyant Isabella.
tomorrow? we will party in the park,
forget that there’s no cake.
or that schedules aren’t students.
and remember how much,
how painfully much,
we love each other.
Shiny
a blank, shiny slate
overwhelms the burning morn
let the work begin
alphabetize books
search hall and soul for lost desk
afternoon surprise
shiny, bright bookshelves
walls lined with latest titles
how i hope they’ll read
with cheese stick melted
i give in to a day’s work
till shiny kids come
Laundry of Life
the morning breakdown:
poles, bags, pans, miracle trunk
pack our memories
quick stop for short hike
pass waterfall, aim higher
switchback to our view
it is a fine sight:
family of five, swollen legs
lake steals horizon
five showers, three loads
phone calls, dishes, and errands
aprés camp bed? YES!!
Life’s a Rented Dream
silver blades cut grass
mad dash for registration
test Ukrainian
new face with bright smile
knows his English isn’t great
how will he survive?
miracle trunk packed
in temporary dream car
life’s a rented dream
reservation lost
we take his lucky number
campsite without view
girls venture for joy
find una buena vista
wood-filled arms return
though we lack lake view
the mountaintop appeases
so rocky, this life
that makes our Friday
mow, pack, register, test, camp
obligations, loves
Joy Among Us
a flat starts the day
with a little pump, i ride
hills, mountains: progress
web site down, ends work
why not take the dry cleaning?
dead car battery
bored girls seek street friends
they’re at camp, then tutoring
where is their summer?
then, a text invite:
pool party, later denied
(for members only)
embarrassed, we leave
without the key to rich friends
our small house fills up
this after cold talk
screaming drive, snatching pillow
the girls unaware
of how i haiku
remnants of a hollow day
door shut, him sleeping
but before closed doors?
they street-danced on rollerblades
still making the best
i close itchy eyes
view the world through young faces
all i see is joy
When I Come Home
windy uphill ride
ended with teddy bear warmth
symbol of our life
Cancellations
Mythili is eight. She’s named after an amazing woman who speaks three languages with the fluency of a native speaker, two of which my Mythili will never know.
I came home a bit early tonight. My oldest, Isabella, named after my sister, walked the eight blocks necessary to meet me after tutoring so we could find her some semi-leather boots that match mine. Isabella is almost ten. She can just about fit into half of my clothes and has a much keener sense of fashion than me. I don’t know how I’d shop without her.
I was home early tonight because my life revolves around cancellations. Cancel the job I’ve loved and lived for for seven years. Cancel the program for which I sacrificed everything. Cancel my private English tutoring sessions on a weekly basis, because for you it is a bonus, a brief education. For me? Just another cancellation of my semi-automatic life.
Time is money. I say this now because cancellations can be golden.
These are the words I heard tonight, as Mythili voluntarily read books to her baby sister:
“Mama, did you realize the Statue of Liberty was built in 1826?” (Isabella)
(Mythili from other room): “1886, I read 1886!”
(Me, in same moment, recalling the specific childhood memory: 1986. Age eight. Trip planned to New York City for grand celebration of one hundredth anniversary [July 4, 1986] of said statue. Mother and father holding my hands in their hands to break to me: “We’re going to have to cancel this trip. Your surgery is scheduled for that week.”)
“Isabella, it was 1886.”
Riona, the Irish queen, as diplomatic as her regal name: “Mythili, where are those boats going?”
“They’re trying to get the best view of the statue. Remember this summer, at Jimmy’s house, we were on the mainland? But then we took the boat from one island to another to get the best view? Remember, Riona? They built the statue on an island.” (She refers to our summer trip, my cousin Jimmy’s house in New Jersey, the pain of my most recent Spanish cancellation so painfully present that the Staten Island free ferry was the only possible way to see Lady Liberty).
This is why we are here. In five years, they will read about the Romans. They will say, “Remember when we went to the Roman theatre in Cartagena?”
They will study Druids. “Remember when we visited Stonehenge?”
They will chew paella. “Remember the gambas?
They will be these small children, grown so grand, their life filled with cancellations. They will remember their parents’ hands on theirs, age eight. How they loved and hated Spain. How they cried, laughed, lived.
They will remember.
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