I’m eight,

and this may be my favorite number,

I think to myself.

My maternal grandma knocks

on the door of the bathroom,

“Sweetie, come along; we’ll be late.”

At twenty-eight,

I became a naturalized US citizen.

Eight months later

my mom received her green card.

After eight weeks of planning and packing,

to visit my sweet nana in the upcoming summer,

it will be nearly eighteen years

for mom since she last saw her mother…

But then, we receive the news:

“Your grandma has passed away; I’m sorry.”

I freeze.

Everything grows unmoving and quiet,

like the Dead Sea, in which

I was floating only last year

at this time of the year.

After a moment of quiet stillness,

the salty tears come pouring out of my eyes,

enough to form two more seas.

Eight is now my least favorite number.

Anything can be holy when you believe nothing is. Anyone can be a saint when you dream only of devils. Did you know they built an entire city on top of decay and pretended it was a resurrection? The city is a lighthouse, but the lighthouse keeper is a liar. Pilgrims follow the beacon like moths to a flame. When they sing their songs they spit on their neighbors. At dinner, they pass on the wine. It’s not red enough. Mary once had a premonition, but nobody believed her until it came true. By then, it was too late. I went into the confessional and heard my own voice on the other side. I don’t know if that means I’m forgiven or not. Michaelangelo painted for four years straight just for people to look past the focal point. Someone told me he painted while he was upside down. They killed Peter upside down, you know. All the blood rushed to his head. They took John’s. No one knows what happened to the eyes. And somehow, they can make anyone a believer in any cathedral if you would just look up.

When I was 3 ~ I wished I’d wear the crown so when Aunty and I went on stage I’d be the little girl with all the glitter . . . 

When I was 4 ~ I wished everyone happiness especially my Fairy Godmother . . . I wished for a sister and she came . . .

When I was 8 ~ I wished I wouldn’t die because of all the great big welts that were covering my body, closing my eyes, making it hard to breathe . . . I wanted to walk myself to the potty . . . I wanted to go out and play with all the other kids I heard playing outside my darkened window . . .

When I was 10 ~ I wished so very hard to get my own piano, learn how to read sheet music like I read my Nancy Drew mysteries . . . play with both hands . . . sing old time torch songs . . . and play hard classical pieces . . . to fill our small duplex with lots of song . . . And I wished to give my very tired truck-driving father something to look forward to after his 12-hour days . . . so my little sister and I sang and danced in our Show Time skits . . .  

When I was 12 ~ I wished to be a synchronized swimmer . . . be on a swim team . . . wear pretty costumes . . . do underwater stunts . . . dive off the high dive . . . dance to the music of 76 Trombones & Waltz of the Snowflakes . . . glide like a swan on the water and smile like Esther Williams with painted on make-up . . .

When I was 18 ~ I was the girl who got the banner and the crown . . . and wore the title for a year . . .

When I was 42 ~ I wished with all my friends and family at my Great Big Happy Birthday Party we prayed with whole heart & soul that my past year of chemo, radiation & surgery had successfully eradicated the breast cancer and finally I was free to walk forward to love and serve . . .  

I am grateful this wish has come true . . . granted the privilege to light 75 candles this past June in the middle of my LexPoMo journey . . . thank you fellow poets for fueling my forward dance . . .!

  “…deregulation would drive “a dagger straight into the heart of the climate change religion.” –EPA Administrator Lee Zeldin; as quoted in the New York Times, May 24, 2025, on the gutting of power plant regulations  

* * *

I sing from my hymnal of data points
collected high atop Mauna Loa
lonely high notes burned clean of hope
spiraling, they scald my throat              

                            [and still: I believe]
  

My faith is evidence-based
it warms me like heat warnings
wilting Alaska in June;
it stings my eyes like orange-brown
clouds of wildfire smoke
rolling across Iowa              

                           [I weep and I believe]


My prayer book bids me 

Do not pollute the land where you are  

My prayer book chides me
Do not defile the land where you live              

                           [so long as I believe, I shall not be lost]
  

My religious mission, to listen 
to the birds of the sky (even as the sky empties)  
and to witness the fish perishing in hotter seas
(oceans heating, coral reefs bleaching)              

                           [I believe and I weep]   

My morning prayer: may seeds
of weedy sense be rooted
in the soil beneath us all—even
those most greedily deluded              

                           [somehow, I believe]    

The time has come (as Matthew forewarned) to beware 

false prophets, who come dressed in sheep’s clothing 

but inwardly are ravenous wolves—

hungry ghosts, I call them       
                          [their daggers cannot touch me, so long as I believe]
  

Half Cassandra; half 

Tipp’n
They be tripp’n

It’s out of hand
I don’t get it, man

Tipp’n is given
For service above and beyond

I order food on an app
Picked it up at the counter

Screen screams
10%
15%
20%
No Tip

It stares me down
Like a gunman in an old western
Daring me not to tip and walk away

I grab my food 
Run for the door
Never look back

Safe in my car
I exhale

They got me tripp’n
With all this tipp’n

I ordered the food
Paid for it
Picked it up

Why am I tripp’n
Over not tipp’n

Raised on images of women told to hide their magic
Shaped by legends of men bewitched by feminine power
Taught to distrust my own knowledge and experience
Betrayed by my own words, movements, and choices
My unwieldy body not trustworthy, not mine at all
Always the root cause of every failure of man

Groomed from infancy to keep secrets and serve others
Women are taught to hate themselves
Simultaneously too much and not enough
Never able to master the challenge of just right
Never worthy, never a priority
Not even to ourselves

The stories forced on us make it so hard to tell our truth
Cardboard cutouts our only pattern
Our stories, oft hidden within soap bubble fantasy for our safety,
dismissed, derided, and disbelieved
I own my privilege but
White feminism exploited me too

How does one get old?
Is it secret poisoning?
Or fullness of bloom?

My first haiku.

June forecasts taught us to look up 
and around    to empathize with the unseen

Wisdom came to our front porch steps
   brought baubles and pearls    from the myth to the real

Reminders that the best poems come
    when we’re being ourselves        revised 4-5 times but unedited

We ordered pancakes, grits and garden greens
    played checkers with Persephone    shared a smoke, then a “see you soon”

Sandia songs from enchanted mountains
    songs of hope, of finding our way    filled the valley from afar        

Stories told line by line
    of an America    we can all feel

Everyday haiku humor brought us closer
    to what matters    to the interior

We found the freedom to think of ourselves
    a little less        and just let the river flow 

As the Crow flies
    out into the frontiers       savoring the poems

Special thanks to: Michelle LeNoir, E.E. Packard, Yersinia P, Shaun Turner, Greg Friedman, Pam Campbell, Lav, Bud R, & Mary Allen for their uplifting comments and amazing poetry all month. You’ve inspired me and taught me so much this month thank you!

To all LexPoMo Poets, new and returning vets, I want to say thank you for filling this poetry month with your voices and creativity

And to Chelsea, for letting me read these poems out loud to her and for being our biggest fan, thank you. 

Mid-day summer hike

The song of the tanager

Is the only sound