i can’t see
the environmental impact
of the roads
ski areas
and mines along the way.
only the blue sky
long absent
longingly awaited
the sun hot on my skin
waterfalls pouring
from every crevice
of Rocky Mountain rock
and snow still standing
obstinately against all predictions.
i will take this pain in my muscles
to bed with me
as i listen to the roaring river
and try to remember
this perfect planet
we’re destroying
but for now
for today
i am blinded by blue.
fog creeps in
beckoning spring
with an absent snowfall
frost on the branches
we wait
i wait
new bicycle shining
under the flash
never yet on pavement
one thousand
rooftops mimic mountains
i cannot see
he tells me by 2050
too many people will live here
to sustain life
and why am i having another child
vanilla caramel cream porter
mixed with dates that match up exactly
eleven
twenty-two
eighty-nine years
my grandmother enters
and leaves this life.
it is monday
only monday
the week is fresh
new like the snow
that will creep in on cats’ paws
as we sleep
and i wonder
if my girls
who met her once
will brave the cold
the cold, the cold
and bury the seed
that brought them into this world
the seed from last century
the person who they will never know
whose words ring
like icicles on snow
we wait for all night.
we’re a cookie train
decked out in
conductors’ clothes:
Brownie and Daisy,
brown and blue,
multicolored patches
glistening in the sun,
red wagon behind
brimming with
a rainbow of boxes
tied with
red, yellow, green, purple
ribbons,
blue and white cards,
working our way
through the melting-snow streets
to bring a little happiness
on a Sunday afternoon.
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.
Isabella
is it an act of defiance
once again, or a child
wanting to be a child,
dashing into the night,
rolling down the hill
until bits of dried grass
stick in your Brownie vest
like petulant pieces of glue,
causing me to shake your shoulders,
my flustered fingers unable to remove
from your almost-eight tangles
the frustration your actions bring?
or is it me, your end-of-day tired mother,
unable to remember those hills
i rolled down as a child,
petulant pieces of green grass
imprinting triangular shapes on my skin,
as i hand over your punishment
on display for your peers to mock,
only to later see the stack of cards
on my nightstand, the supplicant sticky,
“these are the thank-you cards i rote,”
your grammatically correct misspelling
tugging at the mother, the daughter,
we were both meant to be?
Mythili
with two top teeth missing,
you blend into the crowd
of second grade girls
for a weekend of camp.
you are the youngest
of twenty, demurely asking
for help with your pajamas,
with the needle you can’t quite thread,
but singing along with the songs,
joining in on the games,
snowshoeing into the woods
as if your teeth had already sprouted,
as if you had already skipped
over kinder and first grade,
my little one wanting
to be all grown up.
Riona
from the moment of birth
after twenty-four hours
of fighting to emerge,
when you made less than two peeps
and settled in next to my skin
for a peaceful night of nursing,
to the quiet child who follows
Daddy to a job and speaks not a word,
who cuddles silently on the couch
with a fever that you’ll tell no one about,
i truly believe,
my youngest, angelic child,
that you were born
without a single complaint in your soul.
i’ll be exhausted
until the day squeezes out
more hours to soothe me.
is anything on
ever worth watching for more
than i can swallow?
her hands on mine aren’t
what i thought would make my weekend,
but snow will turn you.
speaking of blown snow,
what comes out of my drunk mouth
chills everyone here.
smiles wiped weariness
away from my doldrum day
with childhood relived.
we are girls becoming women
and women reliving girlhood.
all it takes
when times get rough
is a dodging-traffic drive
a sled down the mountain
endless screaming and dancing
a squished spider’s funeral
meals for twenty-eight
movies all night
and
the elixir of life
breathing wintry air on our skin,
popping out our souls
on the goosebumped flesh.
we are girls
girls
girls
becoming women.
what they’ll remember
is this fire that
shuts out the frigid winter
with a crackle and zip,
a whip to the wind;
this shuffling of places
on the couch,
bottoms in laps,
blankets bundled in
heaps of warmth;
this mother with arms
wrapping love around them
as they switch places
and fight for their turn;
this father playing monster
from the floor,
his whiskery face
lit up amongst the flames;
this quiet game that
lets all the talks out
and erupts in unsuppressible
jubilant giggles.
what they’ll remember
is nothing else from
this day,
this night,
this part of their lives,
nothing but
love and warmth and happiness.
this is what it could be like:
the drive along the curvy road,
the sleeping baby at home,
the seven of us occupying
every last seat in the van,
the mountains with their
endless array of snow,
our legs working their way
through drifts and down slopes,
the warming hut that
warms our hearts,
the children with their
endless array of happiness;
you here, the four of us together,
just as all families should be.
the cold has set in
marching our hands to our mouths
our breath escaping
into the Christmas-lit night
as if carried by ghosts.
i listen to my favorite song
by Jakob Dylan,
summer on my mind.
if it refuses to snow
then i refuse to accept
that winter is only days away.
the cold has set in
creeping into my skin
reminding me
of the darkness behind the light
the hollow hiding behind this night.
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