They were thrilled and shocked
to learn that tele– means
far-reaching.
searching for a real understanding,
they argued their point.
Alas, the word wizard won
as we evaluated,
in snippets of excited
teacher-assisted talk
along our educational continuum:
television, telephone, telepathy
The light bulbs sprung up
over their heads
and they shuffled out the door,
ready for another hour
of new, far-reaching words
they would learn along the way.
I am in a hollow now
wishing it weren’t so damp
the wind beating at my branches
as i reach for warmth
instead i double up my layers
like a bear fattening for winter
making my insular depth
as welcoming as the wind will allow.
there’s time to think, to look at
the small ones surrounding me
more closely, to hear the silence that
plays behind the gales’ haunting chords.
perhaps i have chosen this place,
perhaps it has chosen me. but i
will wait until i hear more than silence.
i will wait until i hear peace in my heart.
Are we all (as my mother says)
self-absorbed Americans
bragging about our travels,
our milestones, our children,
our every little stupid success
in an age when technology
brings us together
and tears us apart?
What is the purpose
of these tools I use to write
these words, of
sending a message out
to potentially thousands,
but really only a few,
readers of my news?
And while I’m asking,
when will this bring,
instead of frustration
and anxiety, a sense
of belonging, of relief,
as I have begged for it to?
i should be you for Halloween
because you make me question myself
hiding them
hiding me
being me
removing them
them removing me
enough already.
let me be who i am
and if they can’t handle it
if I can’t handle it
then we’ll call it a truce
and fuck this Facebook shit.
OK?
Isabella
you still want to hold my hand
at the skate rink
though i know it won’t be long
before i’ll be remembering this day,
just as i now remember our first time here
when you stood in size eights
under the lights,
sashaying without moving your legs,
a two-year-old on a dancing mission,
and here you are now,
seven almost eight years old,
begging to skate with me
while we still have a moment
left of this afternoon,
this evening,
this moment of your life.
Mythili
the words of your imaginary worlds
have developed
into a complex combination
of English, Spanish,
and your own invented language.
you will still take
two toothpicks,
a doll head and a rubber band,
or, like today,
folded up pieces of cardboard,
and create stories
as intricate and imaginative as you.
but you are not the same
with your kindergarten knowledge,
your wealth of new friends,
your step out into
the world i know i can’t keep you from.
i will let you go,
but still listen
to your stories,
hoping that one day
you and I will both remember
who you were then,
who you are now.
Riona
it is year two
of you handing me apples to core,
of dumping in enough cinnamon
to fill the house with,
of squeezing lemons,
of tasting remnants of fruit.
i tell you,
Next year you’ll be in school
when I make applesauce,
and you answer,
I hope I go to my sisters’ school,
completely unaware of
the aching sadness in my voice,
of how much I will miss you here.
And I know that’s the way it
ought to be, I know it.
But knowing your innocence,
your focus on now,
is why I can’t control my ache
that grows and grows
just as I can’t control
how you grow and grow.
i’m the one who can’t sit still
whose lazy days are always filled
with activities to keep at bay
every moment of every day
why do i work so hard, so long?
to answer my internal song
my mother’s steadfastness asks
only that i complete my tasks.
for all my life i’ll be her child
walking door to door, mile to mile
i’m the one who can’t sit still
without busy-ness, my life’s not filled.
how can i say
exactly what’s keeping me from you
when i’m not so sure myself?
if you could see my mind
spinning on its axis
like a planet gone off course,
you might understand.
i know, i know,
i am the one with my fingertip
on the axis, i should stop it.
it is fear that keeps it spinning,
fear and frustration
and the pulling of the moon,
the moon i’m afraid i’ll never reach.
some shop for the latest fashion
some shop for gems and jewels
i shop for the gems and jewels
of harvest,
choosing with a critical eye
only the latest, greatest styles:
heirloom potatoes
that melt in my mouth like
smooth cream,
zucchini longer than my forearm
to be chopped and diced
and catapulted into recipes,
red bell peppers to top
hand-tossed, homemade pizza,
tomatoes perfectly plump
to sauce up our lives,
peaches for pies and jams,
carrots (cheap and easy)
to fill the girls’ lunch sacks,
and apples.
apples of every variety,
their taste carrying me through the year,
their travels from the
western slope
filling my bag, basket, bushel
until i work with them
two days straight,
coring, cutting, cooking, canning,
jars of applesauce, apple butter
making the house smell
like a cinnamon dream,
lined up on the shelf:
the shiniest, most fashionable
gems and jewels
of golden red
to decorate my style.
he is five like her
reaches to hold her hand
offers her bits of his lunch
and asks why
there are no dinosaurs on Mars
a moment after asking
what’s a planet?
he’s never been here before
nor read a book about Mars
or planets
doesn’t know what i mean
when i say, let’s visit this exhibit
i watch them chase each other
up and down escalators
she a little mixture of bossy, shy,
him thrilled and ever-curious,
and i think
how different their wealth of knowledge
must be,
how unaware they are
of each other’s differences.
hovering over the highway
gray clouds attempt to rain
in a swirl of condensation
they reach down toward earth.
i watch the gas gauge hover on empty
as the rain stays high
unable to bring relief
to a guzzling, thirsty world.
we make it home and i promise
not to drive this van for a week
just as everyone posts complaints
about the football game.
it is stuttered like the rain
unable to fall, unable to win,
so close to what we can see
but in our ignorance can’t reach.
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