we can’t have autumn
without the vibrant colors
of all that is lost
trees casting shadows
that can’t be hidden by cats
seasonal comfort
It All Falls Down
cycling commute
Seasonal Cycling
First, Let’s Learn Language
cycle summer camp--
real-life language lessons
(fix, pump, pedal, grin)
Too Hot to Believe
only this sunrise
shaped by feared wildfires
could make these strange scenes
The Seedling of this Cycle
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you’d better take that fear you’ve carried around all your life and bury it at the bottom of your heart. It will pound against your chest in a rush of adrenaline stronger than the blinking red light that lines your helmet and warns every car in town that you are on your way, that you will circle into that roundabout with death at your wheels, and that they’d better yield or someone’s getting fucked.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you’d better keep your mouth closed and your mind open. You will have to stop every few hundred feet for a pedestrian who jolts out between cars, for a light that intermittently changes to red but only for one direction of traffic, and for a society that prefers feet on the ground over feet inside cycling shoes. You may think that the road rage of your previous life has a presence here, but your language is too foreign for their ears to comprehend, and your Americanized version of right-of-way will never fly with this set of Spaniards.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you’d better learn how to ride the wrong way on a one-way street. Forget smooth sidewalks or bike paths–they are filled with sneakers and strollers. You will need the road at your wheels, your heels, spinning beneath those pedals in its smooth, cracked, gutter-ridden, bus-polluted, fountain-lined surrealistic view of life.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you must recall your numbers. They will blend together like the apartment buildings, pisos, escaleras, and disappearing miles on a bike computer that has been jolted out of place from so many lockings and unlockings, so that its measurements are lost along with the trail of tears that has carried you across the sea.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you must forget all the reasons that brought you onto this route and remember all the reasons you will ride your bicycle back home. You are not commuting. You are not joy riding. You are, with every wintry breath you pull into your lungs, the same person you were when the seedling of this cycle first sprouted in your heart.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you must be yourself. The cyclist. The fanatic. The mother, the teacher, the lover, the poet. All of these rest along that metal incision at the bottom of your shoes, tightened with expert tools, holding you to that magical piece of machinery that is everything you are, have been, and ever will be.
Mythili’s Eighth
breakfast tray in bed
craves the words more than the dolls
can’t believe she’s eight
wash, treat, cut, and style
nine euros, Spanish freedom
tangle-free curls bounce
café con leche
warm enough to sit outside
a gift of a date
Hello Kitty wrap
princess receives surprise gift
art set opens warmth
one hour together
my time with them so precious
color in our dreams
pedal click in, out
first forget purse, then helmet
next will lose my mind
home to hot shower
never mind the broken door
day is wrapped in love
Crossroads
every morning
as i come to my crossroads
just after dawn
touches her fingers to sky,
i make my decision–
an uphill battle
breaking my muscles,
the wind of the highlands
an ever-greater challenge
than the meandering creek
i pedal for simple sights:
the middle-aged blonde
with two matching goldens,
(sometimes leashed, sometimes free)
the bright yellow spot
of a SmartCar, and me
always wondering just where
on the curvacious beauty of
a road i will pass it,
the ever-silent deer
who peer intently at my machine
as they stand cautiously
at the edge of civilization.
and today? a gift,
the top of the most tenuous climb,
the wind bending back leaves
and straightening out flags,
pushing against my will,
when what should cross the road
but a lone pronghorn,
its native spirit leaping
over barbed wire and into
the chaparral, leaving me to
finish my ride, open up
a starvation-induced chocolate
whose wrapper reads,
You are exactly where
you’re supposed to be
(i don’t throw it away,
its aluminum words
imprinted on the crossroads
that may lead me elsewhere tomorrow)
Letters of Idealism
i see the sky saving sprinkles
for after my ride home,
and tears are close
to making my face fill with moisture,
not because i’m afraid,
but because the mountains,
so far, so close?
they’re touched by the clouds
i can’t quite touch,
their gray-blue beauty
my reason for loving it here
i read two letters today.
one from Frederick Douglass
to his former master,
one from a substitute teacher
to my principal.
the first? a slur of
nineteenth-century idealism
intermingled with self education,
shared amongst
twenty-first century students
whose idealism reads
in between the lines of hatred
that bleed through generations
the second? a slew of
twenty-first century truths
about our shattered system
and the bright light
that shines through
in my second home, my school,
the place where i know
the idealism can break
the mold of those same clouds
that bring beauty,
that save me from rain
Arapahoe Road
it is like any other day.
it is unlike any other day.
i strip in thirty seconds
and replace appropriate attire
with oh-so-attractive cycling gear
i have it all–
the tight shorts, leggings,
arm-hugging shirt,
fingers-enclosed gloves
to fight a bitter headwind,
helmet with its beautiful
pop-top blaring light,
oversized headphones
that won’t fall out of my ears,
my music. set.
i pedal hard.
the wind scathes me,
but the sun settles amongst
perfectly puffy clouds,
a blue sky spring
and a creek
with mama mallard, daddy duck,
so idyllic i want to
trap their innocence in a lens,
all before i reach Arapahoe Road.
i can’t trap it,
but i take my headwind in stride,
arrive home to three
bright-shirted girls
who make music of their own
he texts me later,
driving home from the ice,
stuck in traffic
on Arapahoe Road.
Lexus Mustang BMW Tahoe,
i illicitly reply,
i fit right in.
(bumper-tied-on 98 Hyundai)
he sends back a laugh
and i smile,
the picture perfect ride
as i crossed this very street
present in the forefront of my mind
on this day like any other,
this day unlike any other.
Step Write Up 