finally a break
monotony busts busy
cross-stitched piece by peace
of course, a bike ride
soaking in late autumn sun
that shines on Denver
laser tag trial
semi-wary girls: boy land
(we fight our way through)
tea, soup, spoon bread, love:
dinner stewing our return
(housewifery week)
end with beginning:
angel bear guarding baby
waiting to come out
My small poet is lost in the world of text citations, a phrase I never heard until I was a junior in high school… Not as a fourth grader. And while my fifth grader keeps the world laughing with her dry humor and is at or above par in every subject, I can only imagine how Rio feels when she hears from the fourth teacher in her life, “She is so shy.”
It is the label of introversion. The stamp on her personality. And as she sits there in the hard plastic chair, her whole body shrinks underneath the shawl Heather made all those years back. She presses her knees tight against her chest and her eyes redden in her quiet attempt to hold back tears.
How did they end up with the same teachers, and why did we have to bring the kids with us? These are things that go through my mind as I see the 1’s and 0’s on her paper. As the English teacher lowers her voice to just above a whisper, almost mocking the small voice of my youngest; as the math teacher blatantly tells her she needs to speak up in science since there aren’t tests and that’s the way she can prove what she knows.
“It’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be,” he assures me when we arrive home.
Not two minutes later, Rio asks me to cuddle with her in bed. I read her part of her book, then close it and wait. She has that pouty I-want-to-tell-you-something look. “Is it the conferences? Is it someone at school? Is it something you don’t understand? Is it your daddy?” (Because dark thoughts enter when I am so, so scared for her.) She negates all questions, and finally, in a barely-audible whisper, tells me, “I’m scared to go to sleep. I have scary dreams.”
It took her twenty minutes to divulge this to me, so I don’t press her for more. I talk about the weekend, about carving pumpkins, about me taking her trick-or-treating all by herself, just with me, as her older sisters have outgrown going with Mama and Daddy and have friend plans. Her red eyes soften when I ask her to think about these things, to dream about them.
But I will never know what’s really going on inside her mind. She will never tell me. It could be the disgruntled drive over to conferences when I discussed with her daddy an allowance-and-all-other-activity cutoff after so much backtalk about chores this evening. It could be the teacher’s tiny voice mocking her small soul. It could be Isabella’s snide remark when she asked her if she wanted to listen to her read her poems aloud last night, and the teary rush into the other room when it looked like she’d offered a voice to someone who didn’t want to hear it. (Isabella made up for it later when Mythili asked for a full reading and Izzy complimented–and was quite impressed by–every last one of her poems). And it could be… that she’s just having scary dreams.
But I will never know. Just like her teachers will only know her as the “shy girl.” Her sisters will always think of her as the “easygoing one.” And her mother? Everything about her–her dark hazel eyes, her small smile, her desperate need to wrap her entire body around mine when she wakes in the morning–will always be an endless mystery to me. One with clues I will pick up as she grows–from those sweet lines of poetry to late-night whispers of fear–as I try to find the meaning behind the poetry that is my small, shy, loving angel.
what angers me now
is her quick accusation
that we just don’t care
bullied confessions
took control of my first class
(undocumented)
yet, she’s tracking us–
collecting district data
to prove we’re worth it
you cannot track kids
who’ve been shoved into lockers
with tablet data
one day she’ll see this
or continue on her path
of domination
either way, we win:
My lesson’s lost, i tell them
—but we needed this—
i actually hear
the harsh words they say to me
i truly listen
but she can’t see that
it’s not in her statistics
and therefore i fail
what angers me most
is how i love, love, love them
and how she doesn’t
stomach tumbling
with sick realization:
innocence now lost
just three days ago
she was climbing up the limbs
of youth’s bulging tree
her arms strong and thin
(but what was bulging inside,
ready to burst free?)
to know that she knows
kills me from the inside out
(as a mom, a slave)
failures drop like leaves
of youth’s impending autumn
to crunch with my woes
i’ve always loved leaves
(but there’s no satisfaction
in this kind of crunch.)
she searches hollows
to fill a hollow within
(i’ve searched too. in vain.)
to know that she knows
brings every dark doubt to light
(no tree-limbed safe-net)
what will she climb next?
(the strong arms of a stranger
who will leave no leaves…)
a mom’s greatest fear:
to lose children to branches
that i cannot reach
she wants an answer
and i want a solution:
not an easy mix
i stare at Wash Park
paddles, crayfish everywhere
and think of that day
when we were problems
we were each other’s problems
and that was okay
she’d never been there
and we pedaled that huge bike
each one disabled
we ate what we ate
we chewed what we chewed: bitter
yet: so fucking sweet
and why i hate now:
because i have everything
(nothing without her)
money doesn’t buy
that once-in-a-lifetime love
trapped inside boxes
so what’s my answer?
there’s no easy solution
to a broken heart
but let us fix it
pedal away from Wash Park
be wholly ourselves
red sky at night brings…
allergies, fires, candles…
and love. my love. love!
red sky at morning
sailors give warning: heart bursts
for what’s lost at night
eyes burning, itching
allergies taking over
lost words from far back
yet, i’m so happy
house tucked into dream pocket
i could let this go
this and my students
who deserve America
(this dream we all have)
and i’ll fight for them
and she’ll praise him, she’ll praise him
(but he wouldn’t fight)
and we all know it–
how deep my love grows. hard ass?
abso-fuck-lutely
hard ass, heart of gold.
that you can’t forget. you can’t.
and why now, why now?
cause it’s easy now?
cause you have a house, a home?
cause we’re good enough?
cause we were good then,
as golden as these lost days.
i’ll keep my days. thanks.
with windows wide: write.
because you’ve missed my poems, love.
since yesterday’s dawn
girls in sun’s shadow
as she announces her move.
life: cycle in, out.
you know you’ve missed me
my “seven-likes” followers
’cause i didn’t write
you count me daily
amongst the regular loves
that make us a life
and i was just born.
(it was like i was just born
the day i met him)
’cause seventeen years
can’t be measured in mountains
or wildflowers
or whining children.
but in the steps we oft take
on our way back home
and in sunsets. Sun!
lighting my way across love
across city, life.
cutting down this ‘hood
into what it’s meant to be:
scraped, demolished, lost.
circular i am
because that’s how tires spin:
neverending globe
that brings us back home
wherever that home may be.
anywhere but here.
met in a drugstore
seventy years of marriage
through three kids, three wars
still earth’s travelers
color-coded pins mark map
slept, lived, camped, drove, flew
she swims every day
he mows the yard and pulls weeds
they tease each other
best of all? they grin
take tragedy, joy in turns
till death do them part
(this is why i drive
take my kids along the road
live long by travel)
a moment of risk
on this never ending trip
is what makes this pic
kids brimming with grins
now i sit in silent car
grateful for this time
i watch my uncle
hands in tremors–sixty-five
granddaughter in tow
age recycles us
into all we wanted here–
just a yes, a yes
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