i’ll dream in cycles
flowered spinning summer ride
and forget my stress
A Ride in the Park
i’ll dream in cycles
flowered spinning summer ride
and forget my stress
seasons
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.
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!!
Neither Fight nor Screen
an imagined home
from stuffies, rocks, wildflowers
neither fight nor screen
Colorado lake
full of fish, too cold to swim
sunbather’s beauty
marshmallow dessert
to toast twilight adventures
camping tastes so sweet
“&;
Prepubescent Exploration
innocent zoo trip
obscene scene not to be seen
look, he has two trunks!
saved by water show
he forgets his bold catwalk
trainer blames teen angst
stories of summer
popcorn, snow cones, puberty?
the birds and the bees
better lesson now:
friends by day’s end, sharing slurps
two trunks forgotten
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
The End
sunny day at end
after a stormy summer
last pool before school
It’s Not that Hard
you’re on a mountain
whose peak brings snow every night
your job: shovel it
Flames Licking Wood
it looks like firelight
i know it’s only light above the stove
tile backing
granite countertops and all
but if you’re walking past
and you imagine you’re someone else
you might think for a moment
that there’s a fire in your kitchen
i’ve always imagined
a room like that
lit up by the warmth
only brought forward
by flames licking wood
it crackles here
somewhere hidden
as i watch her smile over miles
his smart remarks
as kind as the tomorrow
he places like daily gems
for all to sift through
i could count the days for her
she calls me on it
quicker than a Cheshire cat
and it’s the UK pounds
that make our words
you see it don’t you?
have i painted for you
the picture of my perfect fire?
the subtle light
yellow and warm
its heat moving across continents
weaving a smokeless room
into the heat of our hearts
The Orange Room
what i wanted to write
in my semi narrative verse
aspens like shooting stars
on my ears and neck
connection to world
momentarily cut
as we walk along citahdel
stone covered path
as we carry three girls
on our backs up the hill
before stopping for iPhone
photo without full moon
perfect Porto tree and cathedral
what i wanted to say
in my spanglishportuguese
is that love comes forth
in more colors
than the rubio golden lights
of a stolen Christmas
that i could never
with merry words
whisper across the table
Step Write Up 