nausea in and out
sickened with sadness and loss
will it be worth it?
Dream Come True?
nausea in and out
sickened with sadness and loss
will it be worth it?
Spain
My Naked Feet
i am 34
i am 16
i am glaring at you
and i have cried for three days
she won’t say a word
i dial his number
she drives in my
barefoot-on-pavement rain
the same water that washed away
my 16-year-old Oxfordian tears?
these are the tears
that will take me to Spain
that will bring back my youth
and allow me to say goodbye
to everything i have ever known
and when i send these
(as she calls them)
poetic texts?
they will wash away
when i put my naked feet
on the pavement again
on another continent
a place i’ve never been
a place i’ve only dreamed about
Nonrefundable Reservations
day eleven, wall seventeen:
a stack of irreplaceable bills,
nonrefundable reservations
scraping at my dream
(everything i can’t give,
everything i can’t take back)
will it be worth it,
will they open their eyes wider
upon breathing Mediterranean air,
or will the burdens bearing down
on mama and daddy
be heavier than sea-level breath?
if i could slide down the mountains
right down into the sea
and shed myself of my
nonrefundable reservations,
would i be free enough to see the beauty
behind the walls i must still face?
My Last Four Days
this will be my last four days.
i have one cardboard box,
a creekside path,
an empty laptop bag,
and just a bit of my soul
trailing me out the door.
i’d like to leave it open,
for you to say, Come back.
i haven’t asked for much–
and given so much instead,
but you don’t see the notes
i receive from a teacher
twenty years back,
the one who saw the light in me
when i was thirteen,
when i am thirty-four
instead you are blinded by dollars,
hassles, and paperwork
(aren’t we all?)
so much that the dream
that once burned inside you?
it has withered away
into a tiny flame
barely bright enough
to blaze beside my fire
Thirteen Ways of Looking at These Brownies
Modeled after Wallace Stevens’
“Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”
I
my grandmother’s hands
sifting the too-expensive flour
to make my father his
50th birthday cake
(the last time she would show me
her Italian kitchen)
II
the torn-apart bag
flour spilling at the reams
and the brownie recipe of my dreams
III
the first bite of brownie
a culinary orgasmic attack
against the tongue
of every sweet i’d
previously put into my mouth
IV
the shy nudge
the first placement
of a brownie on another’s desk
a reach for friendship
V
imagine a bicycle
a saddlebag
a laptop
five pounds of brownies
1029 feet of elevation gain
gratitude at the end of the ride
VI
Thursday evening
sun setting over every season
a thick black spoon
eight ingredients
black brownie mix
as thick as hope
VII
brownie thank-you cards
mysteriously appear in my mailbox
VIII
handwritten notes
begging to be included on
The Brownie List
IX
popping peppermint in at Christmas
and my daughter’s two-month-later birthday
because everyone has a favorite brownie
X
the joy that rests in your mouth
after eating the brownie
and the joy that rests in your heart
after sharing the taste–
they are one and the same
XI
the small hands
that crack eggs
that beg for a taste
that show the mercy of generosity
as together we make brownies
XII
4500 applicants
an ocean
an opportunity of a lifetime
a store without my brownie ingredients
XIII
seven of the best years of my life
a semi-broken heart
and all the brownies
i will never be able to bake
Spain Haiku
anticipation
disturbs every thought in mind
waiting for our fate
Dreams of Spain
i hope my words are not
lost in translation, but
instead carried on wings of gold
across the sea,
where my dreams can take flight,
my family will prosper,
and my linguistic yearning
will meld into realistic love.
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