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
wait lists should weigh this
all on a sixth-grader’s back
the weight of waiting
but beauty beckons
historic remodel wows
door to her future
organization
was my lesson for day one
follows me for life
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
i’ll dream in cycles
flowered spinning summer ride
and forget my stress
to see through their eyes
i must look through oppression
the window is dark
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.
back to old routines
information overload
do as i say, not…
day’s success stories
vary, depending on view
mine: crosses they’ll bear
now for new nightmares
first-day jitters springing up
fan fires sun’s laugh
bring on my Friday:
arrange, plan, copy, paste, bake:
teacher-mother pie
always a puzzle
time for nothing but my kids
theirs and mine: ours
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
a gift, to turn eight
the loving card, matching clothes
doll’s, girl’s paradise
with double pancakes
and grandmother surprises
she lights up the world
adventure downtown
homemade pizza by Daddy
she spoils us all
heartbreak, to turn eight
that many years past my last
my baby, always
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