daughters

Greener Pastures

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you are not what i thought
and it’s tearing me up
though for once i won’t
say a word about it

but i am disappointed
having to come home this way
trying to shed the mood
that infiltrates my daughter

her exhausted screams
echo through the house
so that i cannot hear
the others’ gurgling happiness

in my soul i reach for her
but my hands, my arms are here
because i’m burned right now
and she’ll sizzle at my touch.

it’s not you, but my blindness,
my greener pastures journey
that has led me right back to
where i never wanted to be again.

as if she knows this, she calls out
in panting gasps, searching for
an answer, a reason, that neither
of us will ever be able to find.

April Daughters

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Isabella

with your Easter dress
and worn-out sneakers,
you carry yourself up the mountain
running so far in front
that you become a black crow
hidden among the scrub oaks,
waiting at the top on the bench
to announce to us all
the view that has brought us here,
proud of your strong legs,
your interminable energy,
your love for the outdoors.

Mythili

sitting at the middle school musical,
finger in mouth,
blankey in palm,
you turn to me and whisper,
“Is this the last song?” (your
ever polite mode of complaint)
and as we walk down the steps to leave,
I ask you how you enjoyed it.
Your reply: “That was SO long.”
(your ever polite mode of complaint)
We get to the car and you are asleep
before I have pulled away from the parking lot.

Riona

what you need
includes a simple list:
water
a wet rag to wipe your own face
getting pushed on the swing
(at least once a day)
cuddling on the couch
stories that have flaps
(or look-and-finds)
bread (so good that
it will keep you from
eating your dinner)
someone to open the white door
(you have figured out the screen door)
and
three blankets every night
(all made especially for you, my love).

In This Moment

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in this moment

I can find the pace I need to get me there stronger
Mythili can “read” a whole page in her elaborate story
Riona can say “I wuv you” seven times
Isabella can brush her top teeth by herself

and someone on the other side of the world
or right across town
is giving birth to a perfectly healthy baby
while another lost soul is pointing a gun to his head

in this moment

I can hear Alanis Morisette motivating my pedals
my students can see twenty pictures on Google
of the cedar trees they’ve never heard of
the teachers can track me down for brownies

and someone right across town
or on the other side of the world
is pounding a woman’s skull into the drywall,
while another is handing a ten-year-old his first pair of shoes.

in this moment

I will live
I will love
I will remember what I have
what we all have
(somewhere within us)

Baby Number One

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standing next to my bike
(baby number one)
just before sunrise
I adjust the straps on the saddlebag
and ask myself why I
didn’t pack gloves

the door clicks open
swings shut
forcing my heart rate to
race as if I’ve already begun
the uphill ride

my breath spills out
in gray wisps of
below freezing air as
I take a step around the corner
to see what has materialized

there she stands
barefoot in
her polar bear purple pajamas
her fuzzy morning braids
dangling on either side of her
grinning face, her arms out

“I came to say good-bye.”
I reach for my should-be-asleep
daughter, wrapping my warmth
around her shivering skin,
my always-a-morning-person girl,
my baby number one.

March Daughters

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Isabella

I thought by seven you wouldn’t want
to wear those fancy, “spinny” dresses that,
at age two, caused you to flop on the floor
in tireless tantrums, insistent upon wearing
a dress—OR ELSE—so much so that
even if I pulled out a pair of pants
or a onesie for your baby sister,
you expanded into a volcano of screams.

Yet, on a day when you are free from school,
I know I will still see you emerge from your room
clad in the neck-to-toe Victorian style dress
with the gold Christmas paint on the navy blue
background, the embroidered buttons, and
the ballet shoes over your tights, spinning just
as happily as if you were still two
(oh how I love you now but still miss year two).

Mythili

we have no need for gifts in our house.
you create your own.

finding on the floor of my car
a bright yellow foam brain
(product of my school district’s
ridiculous expenditures),
you snatched it up,
reclaimed it as a mouse,
carried it to the park
and named her Lola

Lola hurt herself falling
off the seesaw
and jumped for joy dashing down
the twisty slide,
settling in next to your mouth
(fingers inside)
for your nighttime soother
(of course under blankey)
every night, causing panicked screams
when misplaced,
your beloved, favorite found toy.

we have no need for gifts in our house.
we have you.

Riona

at Mary Poppins, in between
your animated reactions to the
bright colors (“it’s turning green now”
“look, Mama, it’s bright red!”)
and the tap dancing (“see all the
chimney sweepers in black shoes?”)
my friend Hanna counted fifteen times
your turning to me and whispering,
“I wuv you Mama,”
making my heart melt more
than you in your pretty dress,
your first (perfectly obedient) night
at the theatre,
your first musical,
your first time walking everywhere
I once rolled or carried you,
because no matter how many times
you say it to me,
I feel as if it is my first time
hearing your lovely words.

Swallowing Our Sadness

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After two gloriously quiet hours,
they are ready for the flourless cake
that this time (after multiple envious complaints)
I have made just for them.

They emerge from the family room
after watching The Velveteen Rabbit,
tears streaming down their
reddened-with-sadness cheeks.

“What’s the matter, don’t you want cake?”
Daddy asks, his voice dripping with confusion.
“The movie was so sad.” Sobs erupt
from their throats and trap any more anxious words.

“Really? What’s it about?” he asks, never having seen it.
As I begin to describe the rabbit becoming Real
(Isabella chimes in about the high fever)
their tears find their way into my own eyes.

I look at the three pained faces of my girls
who for the first time have been touched to tears
by a movie, and I wonder if I’m crying because of
the story or because they’re now old enough to understand it.

Either way, as I slice up the cake
that they take tiny bites of and abandon,
swallowing their sadness with delectability,
I am not able to swallow my own sadness.

Before I have even had a chance to stop time,
I have a houseful of growing-up girls
who reminded me today how precious
every bite of cake, every rite of passage, can be.

Decisions, Decisions

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What can I capture from today?

The angry parent email
with threat to principal and
superintendent, all over a book
she shouldn’t have read
(for surely she didn’t understand
its genuine meaning)?

The morose groans of CSAP prep
and note-taking
that I put my students through
year after year
(yet do they listen)?

Or

The perfect rectangle of dough
rolled and ready to fill
with a mix of scallions, dill,
butter, garlic, and parsley
(everything already chopped)
laid out by my husband’s hands?

The well-behaved seven-year-old
daughter who carried in posters,
collected pennies for tastes,
sat listening to every presentation
and (for once)
asked permission before every request?

The gutak herb fritters
and sour cream, cider vinegar,
lemon-pepper sauce
that filled everyone’s faces
with smiles and everyone’s
stomachs with thanks?

The choice,
just like my fretful decision to bake,
my too-young-to-be-married decision to marry,
my too-early-for-grandkids decision to have them anyway,
is obvious.

February Daughters

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Riona

You were getting into bed last night
still waiting for us to cover you up
when you told me a story,
your three-and-a-half-year-old
version of a story

“I had to get my piwow
and then I saw that Snoopy wasn’t
he-ah, so I got Snoopy and
put him down they-ah,
and it’s my Snoopy not Isabewa’s
she thought he was hers
but that one’s mine.”

And I realize as I write this
that I have a poet
for my youngest daughter,
and if not a poet,
a poem.

Mythili

Holding your stomach all
through the crowded mall
you let me know
it was time to go
you rushed to the van
holding out your hand
“I need my blankey
I need my blankey”
the door opened wide
and you dashed inside
five minutes couldn’t pass
with your eyes turning glass
your fingers curled silk
like it was mother’s milk
your lids relaxed
sleep came fast
and all was calm in Mythili land
because of the blankey in your hand.

Isabella

Turning seven to you
means a tea party
filled with pink cupcakes
and a houseful of girls
daintily sipping from china cups
only to abandon the table
for screaming pursuits
of chopped-up white snowflakes
foam doilies and spilled glitter glue,
cat chasings and scavenger hunts
whose competition almost drew blood
a smile on your face
as you hand out goodie bags
blow out your candles
and remark more than once,
“Three hours is not long enough.”

Happy birthday my love,
my first child
whose energy fills our lives
for every waking moment.

My Stunning Flowers

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I carry inside myself the desire to be better,
to always sit with you and help you find every
place where your puzzle pieces go,
to tell you, yes, forty minus three is thirty-seven,
to play family while I hold the piggy and you hold the koala

and not to wash these dishes
not to gather my breakfast ingredients
or set up my morning coffee,
not to look at the computer for just one moment

I think how you will be as women
falling in love
going off to college
calling to tell me about your first real jobs
and I both despise and relish these thoughts

I look forward to that time, to sharing
my life with you in a different way,
to see how you’ve blossomed
from the beauty of your youth into the
three unique flowers that I know you will become.

but now I struggle with my evenings,
my tense moments of tomorrow’s prep work,
my need to have a break when you are sleeping
in the brief time between your bedtime and mine

and I know that what I sacrifice is my vision of your future
and the interminable guilt that will mingle
with the sadness you will carry in your hearts,
the longing all of us will have for these moments,
these precious moments without which
you will never be the stunning flowers I have imagined.

January Daughters

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Mythili, 5
she has the same deep-set eyes and heavy brows,
the same rounded nose and thick pink lips as her father,
but as she sits beside him at the table,
shyly peeling every tiny piece of white from the Clementine
and piling them, meticulously as a worker ant,
on the table,
as she raises her eyes and offers me that
quiet smile still filled with baby teeth,
then takes a moment to rediscover what her
older, loud-mouthed sister is up to downstairs,
I know that truly, she is my daughter.

Isabella, almost 7
in an instant she can recite the alphabet in two languages,
always trying to fill in the letters for her sisters;
she lives for her Girl Scout meetings,
hates when the neighbors pick on her
to the point that she will pout and want to cuddle
like a toddler in my lap,
and she always, always, always
has to be the boss, be right, and be defiant,
as if to remind me, day in and day out,
just who I was at age seven.

Riona, 3
don’t mess with the youngest who, upon a recent approach
to a button outside of an elevator,
screamed, “It’s my turn!”
her hands outstretched like miniature wings
in her oversized puffy purple jacket,
rushing in front of two older sisters
her eyes sharp and holding perfectly a glare
that belongs on a much older child,
and proudly pushing the button
before anyone else could go near it.