my weekend frenzy
with a pink sunrise startup
ending with a tree
lattice top apple
laid by a baking expert
five years of hard work
culinary school?
kitchens of Denver and Spain
dough soft as her cheek
yes, she was just three
her first try in our kitchen
all to be near me
i can’t buy her dreams
or make Santa come to life
but i’ll give her that
challenging poses
stave off pre-holiday cold
virus can’t beat me
candy-scented home
bowls brimming with sugar dreams
homage to his mom
girls learn gift giving
how to think beyond themselves
wrapped in red ribbon
i’d wrap happiness
and place it under the tree
if it would save them
childhood rules us
far beyond its eighteen years
may theirs be happy
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
city limits lights
summer-like sun poinsettias
green Christmas this year
their aunt from back home
handmade Kentucky stockings
Spain’s first Christmas gift
Medieval market
roasted chestnuts across sea
an old song in Spain
Riona
you tiptoe across carpet
in froggy footed pajamas
the small smile on your cheeks
as you wait for your turn
under the tree.
your sisters pick out gifts
easily identifiable
and we ask you what Santa
brought for little Riona.
you keep your small sweet smile
your eyes focused on a small box
of green marshmallow Peeps.
your little hands pick it up
and without a word you nod.
i hold back tears.
in five years i have instilled nothing
in the pure and grateful heart
you came into this world with
overlooking the bicycle next to the tree
for a candy you don’t even like
and i remember just why we are here.
Mythili
you won’t sleep on long drives
as your sisters snooze away
you play games with your dolls
tell stories about adventures with Mama
and make song requests.
you have lyrics memorized
to songs i didn’t even realize
the words to myself
your favorite this month?
“If I Had a Million Dollars”
to which every last non-singing note
spills from your lips
in a harmony of artistry
from the back seat of the van.
Isabella
she only loves you.
her almost-two hands push me away
with her classic dirty look.
she can’t say your name yet
but grins when you help her dress
take her to the potty
put food on her plate.
your almost-nine hands
are the perfect match
for your young cousin
and you proudly announce to the world
what an amazing child you are.
the sun has set in cloudville, but
on the drive home the clouds clear,
a starlit sky to bring in Santa,
who sits up setting up a bicycle
and filling stockings with little girl joys.
the clock ticks on. he is
as silent as the sacred night
and i know (i know)
he will let my tears slide
into the passenger’s view
of the endless drive.
they awaken (not too early)
and my unassuming five-year-old
overlooks the bicycle beside the tree,
pointing instead, grateful grin and all,
to the green Christmas tree Peeps,
the simplest gift of gratitude
that i ache to gather in my arms.
(if i could love)
if i could have for one moment
the beautiful temperament
she came into the world with,
the sadness surrounding my heart
would melt away with the first bite
of overly sweetened marshmallow.
we are here now,
sister, brother-in-law, niece,
grandparents who have filled
the underbelly of the tree
with Wal-mart’s
explosion of Chinese reality.
he and i lie in the dark
on our basement floor mattress,
the tint of the waning moon
lingering light upon his whiskered face.
Santa has already arrived,
stripped down because
the underbelly of the tree
regurgitated its recklessness.
i will never forget,
i tell him,
this time at my own
grandparents’ house,
when my mother,
her measly salary
half of my father’s pittance,
after seeing the
gifts my grandmother
inundated us with,
turned to him and said,
‘I hate being poor.‘
i try to remember this
as we rise before the sun,
set up the camera
in anticipation of their anxious faces,
and spend hours
exchanging money, goods
from the underbelly of the tree
that seems to mock,
wealth, wealth, wealth
with its shedding branches
that drop needles
like tears onto the hardwood.
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