untitled
so much in love.
to them
our gift
was one.
past the future-
the time
in the fields
stands alone.
a forgiving tribute,
not available.
athletic shoes
stinky socks
necessary draw’rs
ponytail holder
smart bermudas
bold brassiere
all in perspective glory
and then there are sleeves
any sleeves
all sleeves
feelings
hang out
hang on
easily seen
vulnerable
of all the things
it’s always the sleeves
First love–Blue Mountain Lake.
Summers with stair-step cousins–
the all-day drive
tumbling from the car
racing down the path
shedding shoes
too impatient to wait
for unpacking, finding
suits, changing. Stepping
into navy water, squealing
delighting in deep blue cold.
Each year we swore
we’d never leave this place.
He is a bushel of broiler pans today.
His music could flay a mosquito,
leave a lady younger, more gullible,
less precise on such a gentle evening.
He goes by one thing or another,
but I just call him Hangtown Fry.
This moment
Right now
And every moment
Be yourself
Your glorious, messy, complicated self
Run from those who want to
tidy you up
make you fit a mold
You are magnificent, beautiful, amazing
just the way you are
Yes you with your messy hair, your crow’s feet, your jiggling belly
You with your laugh lines, your batwings, your wattle
You with your baby face, your knobby knees, your tooth gap
You with your rubbing together thighs
You with your thighs that gap
You with your cankles
You with your skinny ankles
You with your sunny disposition
You with your obstinate opposition
You Are
Beautiful
Just the way you are
He’d said, “Reagan is still in office
and it’s time we live a little.”
She sometimes sounded a little sensitive
about turning the son’s old room into a den.
He said they’d talked about a new start–
let him live his life and us ours.
She said okay. He called the contractor.
Weeks later, after vacation, they returned.
The house smelled like new construction
when they unlocked the front door.
“I’m going to check it out,” he said, already
picturing the big screen TV.
She thought about the romance
novel she had left in the passenger door.
The fluorescent lights blinked on white-bright.
They scanned their space and liked it.
(no lacrosse sticks Rocky Horror poster old brown shag
no pine paneling water bed CB radio piled clothes)
It felt clean and new, she said. Left to unpack.
By god, he said. He didn’t see their son there at all.
Why do you think I love you,
Or perhaps loved you,
Do you think it was your ginger hair,
Or perhaps it was your blonde,
Do you think it was your personality,
Or maybe just your body,
Do you think it was because of your family,
Or could it be their money,
In the end those reasons weren’t why I stayed,
They weren’t why I wanted you in the first place,
So why did I love you,
Why did I stay steady during the highs and lows,
It’s because I saw so much potential in you,
Potential to do great things for themselves and others,
I wanted you to know that too,
And help guide you on that journey
When we switch on the HDTV
comparing and contrasting
the information garnered
from our iPhones and Galaxies,
sometimes there’s news
of attacks in La Jolla,
in San Diego county
where the sharks love
the ladies floating in the sun,
with coconut oils streaming
iridescent colors
off their burnished brown skin
into the warm, blue
bioluminescent waters.
Sometimes these news reports
go far as Louisville, Kentucky,
and once my beautiful Mamí
gets ahold of them
a Mobius strip of a prayer
chain, beginning
with los Españoles, takes place—
in the form of phone calls
from Mamí and Papí,
and friends from their native land,
plus my sisters, and their school
classrooms and lunch ladies,
of course, followed by los Latinos
from Cuba, Colombia, and Perú:
César, Antonio, Antonia, Gloria,
Lucho, Luz, and Lourdes—
somewhere at this point
I’m thinking of food—
then there are the major generals
of the St. Raphael Catholic Church,
nestled between
the gorgeous townships
of Wellington and Strathmoor,
the little old women with bee-hive
blue hair styles who religiously
attend Eucharistic adoration,
and offer God to the world
with themselves in the bargain.
They are passing the news to Jesus
that I’m dying of a shark attack
with a 20% chance of survival,
limbs hanging by shards of muscle,
while my poor, poor children
who came along for Spring Break
are missing large swaths
of skin from brushing
against the shiver that attacked
us in 3 feet of water.
Sometimes prayer chains
are vehicles to keep
those best concerned
in the know
about every single thing
you do, as follows:
“Well you know about
Fulanito, he’s got el diabetes,
and he’s—did you know about
he married Fulanita,
and the things she fed him?
Que asco!—anyway he had el Covi
tres veces este año, three times
this year, que pasooo?
and Fulanitaaaa! Ay Dios!
She was working the Pep Boys
before he got sick, siiiiiiii mi hija—
and their babies! Dios mio!
Just don’t forget to pray for them.
So little—
Did you know he was bleeding
out his you-know-whaaaaa
for twelve weeks after they told him
he could leave the hospital?
Hostia! Te lo puedes imaginar?
Can you imagine?”
The damp, gray morning
Waits outside
Defiant
Daring me to step out
In the chill
Mocking
Don’t want to go out
But I do
Reluctantly
The creaky porch under
Heavy footsteps
Moaning
Then thru the dreariness
A sweet smell
Heavy
Hanging in the air waiting
To be noticed
Appreciated
Take a deep breath
Drink it in
Thirsty
The scent fills my body
Quenched the soul
Refreshed
