in line for coffee
a new dessert tray
slides into the bakery shelf.
their hands on the glass
they oooooohhhhh
in choral exultation.
the old couple behind us
chuckle, thank us for
the sound effects,
the beauteous sounds
of three little girls,
the simple sounds
of life’s little pleasures.
Turn
he posts the pics–
i see frowns,
utter unhappiness.
i wonder if it’s her wedding day.
is he vying for irony
or truly emotional,
having known her
better than i?
i won’t ask
as we morbidly look over her
eighty-nine-year-old skin,
as we put forth a fake eulogy
from the minister’s mouth,
as we place her in the tomb
beside her
fourteen-years-dead husband.
i will feel the hollowness
of every death,
every lonely old death
seep through the tears
of my mother and aunts,
wondering when the tables will turn,
when it will be their turn
mine
and if the radiant smile
from my wedding pic
will glow across the display,
words lost to all who enter?
Wings
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.
Tie
with these books,
their warm legs,
my voice,
the frazzled day
melts away.
we forget how many times
they argued over
who sat where
what toothpaste to use
whose turn it was on the iPad
and remember
the comforting magic of
words and pictures
that tie together
everything we think
might fall apart.
Icicles
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.
Beauty
beauty is measured in miles
time spent spinning tires
shifting gears and minds
muscles as tight as ropes
beauty is the gift i give today
the long-awaited gift of newness
the measurement of all the miles
behind me, all the miles i’ve yet to pedal.
Ride
how could i not see
after nearly ten years
in this house
that a four-mile pedal east
leads right into
cottonwood groves
tucked along creeks,
sweeping plains with hills
that carry me
roller-coaster style
into the wind,
and a view
on my homeward journey
contrasting the starkness
of yellow prairie
against the jagged peaks
that beckon non-natives
to call Colorado home?
how?
because i didn’t strap on
my helmet,
layer on my bike clothes,
and find the time to
chill-the-bones,
burn-the-muscles,
praise-the-beauty
ride.
Me
i don’t want to be here.
i’m good at this.
i’ve read enough
to share stories and articles
with my co-teachers,
have taught enough
to take over their lessons on the fly,
remember her words enough
to stand at the front and teach
while simultaneously seeing students
for who they really are,
can move through classrooms
and schedules with
hauntingly smooth ease,
can grade a stack of 150
short constructed responses
before the state test is over
and still take the time
to cry a little when i see
how poor a student’s score will be
but i cannot
i cannot
take the tears out of my four-year-old’s eyes
after the rushed-morning goodbye,
the words i cannot take back,
the days
the months
the years
i cannot take back,
the me
(the mommy me)
who i fear will never be as good
as the me
who walks down these hallways.
Song
the beat is in the background
subtle
wavering
but i can still hear it.
instrumentals move in
twangy
sweet
vocals pounding microphone.
lyrics flow (honey from mouth)
stretched
anticipatory
words that try to hide it.
a breath, a moment without verse
ba-dum
ba-dum
breaking through the song.
i wait for the beat to take over
penetrating
impregnable
for you to hear what i hear.
Copy
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
Step Write Up 