first it’s the wind–
a constant haunt
this time as cold as father winter
then it’s the sun–
at ten thousand feet
quite the mean magician
next it’s the rain–
slinking into the camp
on tails of snow
but it’s the circle i’ll remember–
the women’s voices
calling out ideas
like flashes of starlight
overwhelming me as always
reminding me
again and again and again
that just like that
constant haunt of wind
my love for my girls
all of my girls
is embedded here today.
don’t hold her back
my sister tells me
knowing how her spirit was crushed
and i am twisted between
what i think is right
what i know is wrong
wondering where the manual is
knowing there isn’t one.
just like the quilt
i cross-stitched over my pregnant belly
the words
A Star is Born
she leads them on limitless adventures
hours of imaginative play
shining so brightly
that nothing i say or do
could possibly quench the light.
i just can’t be
the mother i was taught to be
and though her vibrancy
twists at strings of guilt within me
it is me
and i will have to love her
for the child she is,
the child i was never able to be.
my morning begins
delving into darkness.
just far enough to reach
every constellation,
city lights sparkling,
a gold-threaded quilt
thrown upon the plains,
shadowy hills holding
spotlighted pavement
my day ends
bathed in light.
wind whipping my tires home,
sun splashing its mockery
of rainless spring clouds,
glistening snow-capped peaks
gathering sparkling skyscrapers
in a picture frame of beauty,
sunlit pavement.
for you
the darkness dissipates,
melts into the sparkling spirit
of a new day.
i’m sorry to say
you’ve paid your dues
in pavement meanderings,
spills on concrete,
thousands of miles
up and down hills.
now you will hang,
a bat in the close-lidded garage
waiting for the day
when i might strap on a pack
and pedal you into the sunset.
i have wings now,
feather-light
glow-in-the-dark
smooth-as-weathered-stone wings
that will fly
fly
fly me
farther than you could ever take me.
Dear Phil:
I saw that book you gave me.
Remember?
The best-first-year
beat-up, bedraggled
copy you’d
“given to all your proteges”?
You forgot something.
I wasn’t your protege.
I didn’t need to hear
how Kari won
best-first-year-teacher
the year before
or
how I “might not get
rehired”
if I couldn’t control
period six.
I needed for you
to not be my mother
to not be my father
to not be
the beat-up
bedraggled
copy of criticism
that had followed me
all of my life.
Do you remember?
It was my first year
and one of your last.
At least you can walk away
knowing you
were there for me.
Love,
The Best First Year
cat’s paws on glass
dented side panel
dash lights that haven’t
worked in five years
bits of wrappings
from kids’ endless
candy expenditures
taped-on headlight
zip-tied bumper
broken visor
windshield crack
of spider-ice
locks and windows
you have to open
by hand
broken cup holders
too small for any drink
radio numbers
you can no longer see.
and you dare ask
how i could layer on
thick butt pad
sports-bra undershirt
two long underwear tops
one long underwear bottom
bike capris
two pairs of socks
two sets of gloves
a bandana, hat, scarf
a helmet and headphones
a saddle bag filled with
lunch and work clothes?
oh.
you missed
the silver sliver of moon
the last star of night
the windless morn
Aurora’s pink fingertips
painting the sky
the top of the hill home
where the curving road
presented its framed picture
of the city skyline
distantly mirrored
by snow-capped fourteeners.
i understand.
you would rather be warm.
i would rather have warmth.
Inspired by Scotia Nightpoetry
it’s been fourteen years
since she didn’t die,
has lost all the weight
from last year’s birthing
(shed it like washing
silt from her hair)
and rests her hopes and doubts
on the same survivor shoulders
that carried her
from innocent adolescence
to harrowed adulthood
the same survivor shoulders
that fourteen years ago
all of our tears fell down upon,
all of our hopes and doubts
couldn’t hold up
as hair fell in chunks
onto the bottom of the bath,
her youth (our youth)
disappearing as quickly
as the drain
could carry it all away.
it’s been fourteen years
since she didn’t die.
between now and then
the scars on her face, neck
have shaped her into
the woman, the mother,
the researcher of life
who carries her hopes and doubts
on the same survivor shoulders
that led her into the life
her dreams once told her she could live.
with aching muscles
i nestle into the leather couch
surrounded by strangers,
our children
piling on top of
giant silver foam blocks,
forming friendships
as quickly
as the silvery flakes falling
outside the wall
of white-framed windows.
i watch the snow slither
into the city,
the silver titanium points
of this art museum
a perfect picture frame
of the silvery cityscape of skyscrapers
standing tall against the winter.
it is all warmth here,
all smiles,
and we could stay all afternoon
or forever in my memory.
her words escaped you
two years ago,
your never-sit-still antics
keeping your ears
from listening.
i read aloud now,
my attempt at
a Scottish accent
as pitiful as the pink umbrella
Hagrid uses to
pull out the pig’s tail,
and you sit, still as a stone,
asking for another chapter.
though the words
your Daddy and I have loved
for almost as long as
your Daddy and I have been
together
are just now
casting their spell on you,
i am grateful for
whatever words will lead you
into our love of literature.
You may work behind the scenes
to gather nectar,
flying about on
twisted bits of spring wind,
buzzing back into the hive
to lay down your sweets,
to relish in the taste
of foreign lands that
you’ve brought back,
to build up a honeycomb
so dripping with stickiness
that you forget your train of flutters.
But allow me to remind you:
I am the queen.
This is MY hive.
And you had better learn your place
before you get trapped
in a honey-drunk euphoria,
my stinger the only bite
you’ll remember when you wake.
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