THE TRUTH IS
I never felt worthy
I looked at your somber baby faces
Into your clear intense eyes
Full of knowing
Looking back at me
Holding my gaze
And I knew you needed more
You deserved more
Much more than me
Now grown up into gods
Your hearts hold pure
Your vision unclouded
In spite of me
And my meager offerings
You now know this truth too
That we are better than our parents
And unworthy of our children
Life is thus
THE ANATOMY OF A MEMORY
Today I dig out a memory from my repository
Dad, bragging about confections he made
at the college bakery when he was a student
Dark fudges and marshmallows melting on the tongue
At home we ne’er so much as saw him stir a pot
He was the big shot always running to meetings
Always traveling far from home on business
Giving orders, running the show
The time he offered to give mom a break
We crowded into the kitchen with him
Wondering if he could deliver
on the reputation he had constructed with words
Slice that onion, wash those tomatoes
Where’s the salt shaker?
We ran circles around him while he directed
this grand production we wanted to be a part of
But then he burned the curry
The cauliflower, singed and dark on our plates
We gave each other sidelong glances
concealing our surprise and pleasure at this failure
It morphed into a standard family joke
And brought up over the years around the table
Oh yeah, remember that time
That time dad burned the cauliflower?
How often we’ve measured a person by a memory
Hastily assigned an experience meaning
Failed to see something while actually living it
We might not get to change the facts
But separated by distance and perception
we get to reshape the story we tell
I hold up the memory and dust if off
It is not so funny as it is bittersweet, and touching
The burned cauliflower doesn’t define dad
It makes him human
When I shared this with my siblings, my older brothers had earlier memories of dad being in the kitchen but always making something special like fudge and salt beef or paneer curry, not plain rice and dal. My sister remembered that dad learned to make upma from Dr Fowler with carrots and peas. John mused how he always needed helpers in the kitchen. Dad liked to make fruit cake at Christmas time, and baked excellent bread in his retirement years.
typing . . .
Can you write me a message
so I can watch the typing notification—
three dots in a bubble bouncing
as you compose?
The bubble stills, then disappears,
and I fear you’ve changed your mind,
abandoned the sentence you began,
unsure of its relevance.
Now the bubble reappears
and hope awakens.
I imagine you are saying
what I need to hear.
Knowing I’m on your mind is enough—
like the smell of bread baking,
warm, yeasty comfort
when I’m hungry;
like the notes of a song falling
into soulful chords,
soothing a yearning.
You need never send it.
HIS SMILE
In memory of Leslie Kurian (1963-2026)
When he smiled
Some might say a thousand suns
Rose in his eyes
And they would be right
For he walked in an aura of light
When he smiled
Some might say birds drew near
To warble softly
And they would be right
For he heard their tunes though no one else might
When he smiled
Some might say the band started up and the beat
Was in the air
And they would be right
For hips swayed and feet danced into the night
When he smiled
The smile was in his eyes
And in his heart
And somehow you knew
That in that fleeting moment
He truly saw you
THERE GO I
We called her Bob Cut—
The kid from the slums across the tracks
Though her hair hung long and black
Braided and knotted
With a ribbon once bright
Now little more than a rag
She’d slip into the hostel
Under the barbed wire and through
The back door near the incinerator
Where rubbish smoldered
To do odd jobs
For a few coins
She called us Aunty
Stiff in our matching uniforms
Polished shoes and pressed pleats
Behind high brick walls
Though she was still a girl
Like us
We gave her clothes to wash
And our dirty dishes
With food crusty and stale
Forgotten leftovers
One time furry and runny
Crawling with maggots
She scrubbed in silence
Carrying away the stench of our excess
While we watched with clean hands
Our minds already elsewhere
On first crushes
And geography lessons
ENOUGH
Do one. Do all.
One hike and I'm a hiker.
One quilt; I'm a quilter.
For to taste is to know.
Anything else is indulgence.
TWO MINUTES OF SILENCE
It begins without a word
House lights dim
Summoning quiet as they fade
A few stifled coughs ring out
Followed by an epidemic of throat clearing
A final shuffling of feet before they are stilled
In the half light
The walls close in
With soft ticking sounds
I shut my eyes, fold my hands
And with a gentle whoosh
Fall slowly into the deepening silence
With heightened awareness
I sense the warmth of the sleeve beside me
The rows of bodies silhouetted in seats
Inextricably entangled
In our sameness
In our strangeness
We hold our breath
Then let it out slowly
Disconnecting from the
Distraction of daily life
Immersing into a space
That holds us, knows us
What is it about silence
That recedes and expands
Gives us insights that noise conceals
Reveals
Heals
Opens up something in ourselves
Time passes in a far away drone
A scrape, a rustle
knuckles cracking
A shifting of weight in chairs
Then the house lights brighten
Faces return
Silence thins, then slips away
WE DID THIS ALREADY July 2026]
Weeks in advance I prepared my wee boy
for his first day of school.
This kid who rode his BMX all day in the dirt yard,
and had to be called in to eat.
So intent was he on the day’s adventures,
he never knew hunger.
Who looked at me with solemn questioning eyes
as big as the bulge of marbles in his pockets,
and as bright as the morning sky.
Whose ardor for stories made him impatient
with his sister’s interruptions
as we snuggled together with a book.
I sang the praises of learning,
spoke of playmates galore,
and a playground outfitted with the best.
But visions of him at a little desk
with feet too restless to be still
burned my eyes and squeezed my heart.
On that fateful morning
the air was cool from the night’s rain.
The koel’s call rippled with a quiver
as tremulous as my boy’s anticipation
while I smiled brightly for his sake
with resignation and hope.
Would a new school bag,
sharpened colored pencils
and fragrant erasers in fruit shapes
compensate for the long hours
of sitting quietly and listening,
for the slow harnessing of freedom?
He came home triumphant and full of stories,
but the next morning
when I gently touched his shoulder
he rubbed his eyes, and asked, “Again?"
Someone had forgotten to tell him
school wasn’t a one day field trip.
THE DREGS OF CREATION [July 2025]
I smooth out the folds with my palm
And breathe in the freshness of cotton fields
Trapped in the warp and weft of the weave
Tentatively I take scissors to cloth
Whispering the sewers’ mantra
Measure twice cut once
But no matter the sacred mantra
The perfect tension of the needle
Or my ability to harness the scatter of color
Into the shapes imprinted on my mind
Creation carries within it a shadow
A reckoning for the hands that make it
See the floor strewn with scraps
Discarded and superfluous remnants
That never made the final pattern
A tangled prism of discarded threads
Lying in the waste basket
The collateral cost of making
I sweep the floor and remember
The castoffs and the forgotten
The ones that didn’t fit the mold
Perhaps they are the more honest parts
The truer more complete story
Hidden away in boxes
ONE DROUGHT AWAY [August 2024]
The crepe myrtle is an
explosion
Of deep red
Proliferous this
second year
I’ve watered it
regularly
Some might even
say
Religiously
As if my life depended
on it or
Is it the other way
around
What with
temperatures
Soaring higher and
remaining longer
In the blistering
zones
Of the weather map
The time of extremes
is upon us
They say and utter
words like
Severe excessive
unprecedented
Except these are not
exaggerations
These are acts of god
Breaking all records
And playing upon
humors
So some in foul
malcontent moods
Slay maim and starve
one another
And some wait out the
season
In darkened
rooms
With iced drinks
Others stand strong
Against the surging
tide
Their sheer
determination
Turns the wind turbine
Delays the
permafrost
From pooling
And I watch
A rabbit run across
wet grass
Hold your sleeping
body close
And breathe you in
The
Shapes of Ninety-five [October 2024]
She
clings to things assured
good
bones, sugar,
her
second son,
while
other remembrances
slip
through her fingers
to join
the ever growing jumble
of
faces, places, and times
mingling
interchangeably
to form
newer versions
of
well-worn family lore.
Ninety-five
is very old,
is a
mantra she repeats
as she
struggles to wrap her head
around
this reality,
though
counting to one hundred
she
mastered decades ago
by tens
and fives.
In the
good old days
‘twas
as easy
as pie.
Sitting
across from me
toast
and eggs between us,
she
mistakes me for my sister,
and
rests her forehead in her palm
her
body slack
momentarily
succumbing
to this
latest realization
this
feeling of betrayal
of
herself
by
herself.
Are her repeated utterances
hints of unfinished work
of unresolved trauma;
a ten-point summary
to unlock life’s secrets
rising
slowly to the top
like
cream
mutating
into wisdom,
into
her voice
emerging
true?
Always
she is full of bravado
of
optimistic still-can-do’s.
Her
former independence
and
industry
she
dons like body armor,
but
when I hold her in my arms
I remember
The baby bird
I found under a bush
As light as a ray of sunshine
VIRGA: DRY RAIN [JUNE 2024]
1.
Clouds roll in
Crowding the sky
Usually clear
And blue
Blue
You could fall into
2.
Clouds darken
Hang low and
Swollen
Hopes rise with the
heat
Of the desert
In shimmering columns
3.
Shower shafts form
Reach for the earth
Descend
On Downdrafts
Backlit
In a summer’s gloaming
4.
Below
Open mouths
Dry
Eagerly lift upwards
Expectantly
As sunflowers to the
sun
5.
A searing breeze
Distracts
Rain streaks waver
Deviate from their
purpose
Morph
Into fine mist
6.
Into wispy tendrils
Delicate
Ephemeral
Trailing underbellies
Swaying
Like seaweed in water
7.
The moisture
evaporates
Never reaches the
ground
Though five drops
Hit the sizzling pavement
Last Thursday
We bought lottery
tickets
8.
I who am
Born of cloudburst
Feel its language
None of this strange coyness
This circling around
the bush
Making up one’s mind
9.
I know rain
That speaks directly
Loudly
With the harsh sounds
Of its mother tongue
Stones jiggling in a tin
10.
Spoken in a torrent
Never shutting up
For days
It crashes and flashes
Rumbles and tumbles
Never letting us
forget
11.
Musty laundry
Broken umbrella spokes
Green mangoes
Wrenched too soon
From heavy boughs
Cats and dogs
12.
Monsoon
When I first heard the
word
Spoken about New
Mexico
I laughed
Almost out loud
Like virga
BLESSED AND BURDENED
I
walk along a shore
Sometimes
it is one single shore
Achieved
through mindfulness
That
singular focus
Allowing
one to assign
Spray
and sand
To
a location
Fixed
in time
Mostly
it is many shores
The
gravelly strand of Calangute
With
its piles of sun-bleached shells
Its
rough waves gouging holes
Under
my heels
The
burning dunes of Madras
That
endless walk to the Bay of Bengal
In
the middle of a summer day
I
see the lighthouse flash
In
a moonless Goan sky
Its
beams reaching out to outline
The
dark dank wood of fishing boats
I
hear the soft snore
Of
lapping waves
Carrying
through the night
And
I am ten again
Surf
hurls at me
Its
lather crashing
On
volcanic wreckage
And
my bones remember
The
novelty of black sand
Against
lush foliage
Hand
lettered rip tide warnings
On
Koki beach
In
sleepy turquoise waters
Fish
hover near my feet
Sea
glass glint in the shallows
I
dip my baby’s toes in Quilon
And
snuggle against a retaining wall
In
windy Galveston
Pieces
of paradise
Snatches
of story
I
walk along a shore
Sometimes
it is one single shore
Like
today
The
sky is blue
The
sand is cool
The
gulls are loud
I
notice everything
Remember nothing
MY SUPERLATIVE SWEETHEART
There you are, for
You are the surest step
The purest air
The exhilarating high
Of breathtaking views
When I probe the deep
I find you there, for
You are the bluest hue
The steadfast anchor
The calmest water
In turbulent times
You’re my dream come true
You’re every Irish blessing
My pot of rainbow gold
My lucky fortune cookie
When at end I read my story
You’ll be on every page, for
You are the rising action
The headiest climax
The truest arc revealing
The loveliest resolution
DESPERATION’S MOMENT
Numbers don’t add up
The blowing wind holds no answer
The air is spiked
Bubbles burst before they rise
My bags are packed but I can’t let go
She drifts away
My outstretched arm falls short
A fetal primal howl
Threatens to surface
Undermining underpinnings
Besmirched
I beseech grace
HALF-HEARTED PARIS
I lean in to the
Strains of a lilting melody
But his notes are carried away
Muffled in the snuffle
Of the wind
His lights reputed to shine
And razzle dazzle
Leave me only half moved as they
Fizzle in the drizzle
Of the rain
I linger after dark
In columned alleyways
Amidst amorous shadows
Chancing a dance
On a whim
Under cold ornate arches
A turbulent Seine flows
Drifters in thin polyethylene
tents
Hover under cover
On
its banks
Discombobulated I grasp
He hides
He pulls away
A marionette;s
On
coy strings
“They’ll kill you.”
The nice man warns
or prophecies
through his rolled down window
as I cross the street to hand
a bottle of water
to another someone
lying near a tent on the sidewalk
listless in an unwashed garment
on this sweltering afternoon.
Another someone who is
someone’s mother
someone’s father
someone’s son
someone’s daughter
down on their luck.
Someone who might have been
someone once
but is now invisible to those
like the nice man.
I am rattled.
My faint heart picks up velocity
and for a minute I waffle
want to abort my mission
without informing headquarters,
scold myself for my naivety,
for leaving the car unlocked,
for the pepper spray
still in its packing
at home.
Then the someone
softly intones
“God bless you.”
Adding almost apologetically
“Can I have one for my friend?
Someone stole his tarp today.”
The moment expands as
we smile at each other
bridging the gap,
sharing in the days’ elixir.
BACK IN THE DAY
[In memory of Sonny 1953-2021]
HOARDING
________________
kowtowing we withdraw
stepping backward
from each other in obeisance
Yet our need for each other
is caught in a glance knowing
there will be more sickness
and fewer jokes
that while libraries and schools close
Pandora’s box is wide open
This battle we must fight
by withdrawing from the world
and hunkering down with neighbors
taking on the words once again
from a forgotten era
selfless, humane, the Other
And emerging in six weeks
what will we find
________________
MINIMALISM
A little of something horrible is all I can bear
A little of something wonderful is all I need
________________
For my mother’s 90th birthday
I blow into the thindong and embers
Come to life glowing red the lid trembling
On the rice pot spilling and sizzling
Snugly sounds and smells
Mum and MeiMei murmuring
Catching up, remembering, rendering
Bits of learned family lore
I step in the footsteps of my mother
As she did in the steps of her forebears
Tracks tracing back five hundred years
To our first clan mother Mohkynhong
Afraid and alone but for a kind man
Mother of mothers carrying her wealth
In a cane, but also carrying within her
The ones to come and they came
In various hues and sizes
A girl cousin kidnapped in the market
An uncle drawn to graves on dark nights
Stories of courage tragedy and generosity
Of scandalous secrets whispered in hushed
Voices by busy aunts shucking corn
On low lingknots around a hearth
Tended assiduously
To many ancestors we feel no connection
We may as well be adopted
And some of us are but the struggles
of our predecessors whether heroes or villains
Who Gave us a future and together
Khasi or dkhar we are a family
So here you are today daughter of Kwin
Descendant of Mei Mohkynhong
Not afraid and alone but comforted and
Swathed in the heritage of our ancestry
For you hold within you
Those who have gone before
Those who are and those to come
________________
THE BLUE RECLINER
tucked away in the corner
in front of the TV
Watching political pundits
pontificate and quarrel
or cheering as the home team
gives New Zealand a thrashing
in the ICC
Nor salivating at something
cooking on Food Network
goat cheese melting warmly in a
Mediterranean dish
his latest favorite cuisine
With a shallow impression
where his head lay
when he dozed with closed eyes
and partly open mouth
during many daytime naps
and at night when sleep eluded him
Now lonely and remote
as a vacant house
with boarded up windows
and overgrown grass
The warmth having fled
with him
I AM
I am a melody at dusk
while the day softens
to baby pinks
and blue hues
I am the heartbeat
of the universe
the steady rhythm
of nothing and everything
I am the word
that is never spoken
the cry ascending higher and higher
that breaks the sky
I am the gentle sway
in your limbs
dancing with the moon
face aglow
I am the echo
of never ending beauty
the tip toe
to that blissful ache
________________
UNTESTED BY DEATH
pain I know
toothaches that set me
on ice and fire
that lead to root canals
and extractions
draining pain of child birth
debilitating strength
muscles quivering
giving way
love I've had and lost
known the heartbreak of rejection
the curse of betrayal
bottom low depression
the sorrow of being found
wanting
a sense of wholeness gone
and the surety that
one could never love again
laugh again
but death?
I recall the death of pets
a fish
a bird
we pretended at grief
the same way we pretended
at playing grownups
intoning the solemnity of pastors
in backyard funerals
when we lost
three hamsters the same morning
we had mostly discarded
play acting by then
plastic bags and the
rubbish bin
replacing last rites
I've attended scores
of funerals
witnessed the raw
expression of grief
primal uncontrolled beating of breast
clutching at hair and air
face and clothes
in shambles
Seen the widow
erect and alone
death can change a world
it takes but a moment
to awaken that realization
and the young fatherless
confused at the attention
when only yesterday
no one attended to him
at the hint of death
a quick mental roll call
confirms no one is missing
children, parents
brothers, sister,
lover
I confess guilt at this abundance
and hug you tighter
fearing the test may be nearer
________________
SAVIORS AND SINNERS
You took innocence
In exchange
you leave shame and confusion
with no expiration
no explanation
You brush your fingers
up my thigh
Place a sneaky hand
under my blouse
yellow with blue birds
I avert my eyes
to the sky
that now hangs heavy and dark
a cloak
obscuring all
I unprotect myself
protecting you
Not betraying you
I betray myself
Expansively expensively
Doubly burdened
Your sins I carry
To the public square
To the cross
#MeToo
________________
UNCHECKED
Don't ever point that at your brother again
she shrieks
Her words slice thin air
I freeze
The tykes continue laughing
dashing around the Rexine chairs
at the airport
The fear in her voice escaping them
They, knowing only swings and slides
and bright yellow butterflies
Unable to see
the violent images that flash in her eyes
because
plastic four-inch arrows
pointed at each other
had gone unchecked
Later ensconced in my favorite chair
I turn away
when the news anchor streams the video of the latest
police killing of an unarmed man in Charlotte
shots ring out
his blood darkly pooling on the street
caught on camera
now gone viral
________________
SUMMER DETAIL
I've picked the mulberries
washed, stemmed and boiled them
I've picked the apricots
washed, sliced and blanched them
Outside I've routed every dank corner
of snails of every size and color
suppressing the gag that arises
as I discard them in a paper bag
I've transplanted the last of the tomatoes
shielding them from the desert sun
and puzzle over the wilt and curl
on the leaves of the aubergine
But first, I must dispose of the vermin
that has bitten through the tender stems
of my prize bean shoots and shoo away
the ants on the sunning fruit leather
From the sofa with open Forbes
my sweetie asks
as I hurry past him fixated on the next task
What are you doing?
Someone has to keep this house together
I lament tersely.
He calls back with amenable wryness
Why?
THIS FUNK
All day this funk hangs
dark and brooding
on my shoulders
like monsoon clouds
dense and waiting for release
I stumble around the house
in a stupor
performing vital chores
but only halfheartedly
my brain out of sync
with these sluggish movements
Perhaps it will be gone tomorrow
I am lucky that way
some days
when I lose myself in bursts
of bright action and
pursuits that pretend
to be meaningful
Believing my escape
from the enormous weight
of an ill-fated deed
to be certain
if only momentarily
But deep in my throat
where the yearning lies thick
is a knowing I cannot shake
no matter the posturing
________________
ON THE OCCASION OF A MILESTONE
for Vijay on his 60th birthday
Life began when first you stretched
your hand out and love accepted it
and the deep waters of your soul moved
in someone else's eyes
you gave your promise and never turned back
You cried the first time you touched
the tiny tender toes of your first born
and discovered the days now had so few
moments, and wondered how
being a dad could feel so right
Days and years blur together
cross country trips turn into
trans Atlantic flights with endless
layovers in strange ports as you work
to maintain long distance relationships
No one seemed to need you anymore
you clutch tighter until your aching heart
teaches you that letting go
is the best and only way to hold close
the ones you love
Like drops off water the moments collect
becoming the sum of who you are today –
three score – and going strong
engulfed by so much love
you never dreamed you deserved
Now freer, with license to slow down
to breathe deeply, and perhaps finally catch
that sense of illusive peacefulness
– they say will come
when you lose yourself to the present
____________
CONSTANCY AKA MY SISTER
She should have been named Constancy at birth
after all her mother did hail from the Khasi and Jaintia hills
a land where its people have a penchant for names
picked more for the sound of its lilt and and intrinsic meaning
And the way it rolled off the tongue mattered more
than whether their children carried labels of verbs or adjectives
and of commonplace everyday things
or how comical it might appear to the outsider when they chanced upon
Flywheel, Cornerstone, Jubilant, or a bonny Memorial
haggling for soh yung in the Nongthymai marketplace on any given day
Now you won't find Constancy in the Nongthymai bazaar
even though you traverse the narrow winding trails to every last stall
Nor will you find her in the surrounding hills or anywhere on the subcontinent
Better to look for her on Watford's high street in the Queen's own land
or if you are really lorni go directly to number seven on The Conifers
where she starts the day in a tranquil moment of prayer and carrot juice
then cheerily cares for the boys and girls in her homeroom
in the secondary school beyond the trees at Stanborough Park
who exhaust the hours with tiring questions yet fail to try her sorely
When you find her you will agree as with each and every one
of her family and friends and neighbors and stranger at the door
that she is constant in her patience, kindness and generosity
But her greatest constancy is found in her love towards me
which is as deep as the sea and as old as I am
a love that began with paper dolls and hopscotch in the dust
and endured through colored pencil sharpeners and baby heel shoes
And so today I wish to publicly acknowledge and honor her
with a name that rightfully belongs to her – Constancy
_______________
WINTER SOLSTICE: THE LONG NIGHT
2010 Full lunar eclipse on a full moon and Northern winter solstice: A first in 372 years
Shadows loom large with the fading light
Stealing into alleyways and slithering up walls
In the sky the moon veils her face and turns away
The long dark night is upon us
Shady eyed portenders gaze steadily into murky pools
While swamis writhe with foaming mouth and dusty feet
Uttering oracles of imminent doom and disaster
Of falling into unending unfathomable oblivion
Candles flicker the vigil begins
Pundits debate pestilence and financial collapse
Mothers coddle restless children close
And shepherds watch their sleeping flocks
Elsewhere murmuring shamans divine new birth
It is the cold night before the eternal dawn they say
A world of harmony and understanding unfolds
Of vats fat and heavy with abundance
Now the air carries the fragrant scent of celebration
As revelers break out in melodious shouts
Children dance in streams of coconut water
And farmers envision corn stalks towering into the sky
So, is it a harbinger of abiding light or desolate darkness
They cry out in frenzied uncertainty to the sage
Who sits daily at the edge of town on parched earth
And now raises her bowl for an unhurried sip
________________
AN ODE TO SANITARY PADS
The first time I menstruated was the day before my 13th birthday
when I lived away in boarding school and the girls rallied around
to rejoice that my fate would not be that of a barren woman
because I had a womb that worked and could conceive and have babies.
That I would have babies—possibly many of them—was certain
Hardly a choice given the time and place I lived.
They tucked me into bed and gave me the royal treatment
that we had come to expect when we ached with the flu, or had chicken pox
or some other childhood illness, for we were all still children then.
Though I, the youngest was the last to join the club of “women”
and they whispered in my ears that I was no longer a naive little girl
and must be on guard when boys were around and always keep my knees together.
I stayed in bed that first day and bemoaned the loss of my girlhood
that somehow seemed synonymous with innocence and freedom
while I sipped sweet lime juice brought from the cold room in the school kitchen
and ate my meals in bed with a double share of dessert—
flaky rolls filled with a yummy cream of dalda and sugar
and tried hard to forget the foreign thing between my thighs.
Sirona, the only brand of sanitary napkins we knew cost three rupees
a fortune when compared to my monthly pocket money of ten, but a necessity
considering the alternate hand-rolled wads of cotton in squares of guaze.
But the napkins were thick and rubbed raw the insides of our thighs
and were held in place by a flimsy elastic cord around the waist
which we later saved to hold up the white knee socks we wore to school.
The matronly saleswoman at the campus store knowing our awkwardness
wrapped the blue box in the back with brown paper and string
so we could discreetly carry it back to the dorm though
the brown paper was even more telling as nothing bought at the store
was ever bagged or wrapped. And so concealing it as best we could
we hurried back timing the trip so we didn’t bump into anyone we knew.
Anyone—mostly meaning boys we went to school with
who derived much pleasure from mortifying us into embarrassment
and though we never talked about it with them they let us know in subtle
and not so subtle ways that they were aware of such things.
We’d catch a glimpse of cut out Sirona labels in see-through shirt pockets
and play dumb to their double entendre of leaky fountain pens.
Twenty-five years later with two grown children
I am pampered by an assortment of feminine hygiene products
ultra thin to super overnight sizes, wings, no wings or flexi wings
in great economy packs or in individually wrapped pastel sachets
for night time and day time and every other conceivable time.
The freedom sans the innocence is back.
________________
INASMUCH
for mum on the occasion of her 80th birthday
Her brown eyes are earnest as she speaks softly.
Bright and moist as she tells of her love.
Fragile hands folded in her lap, she leans in closer.
Wanting to be believed, needing to share.
“He watches over me,” she is saying. “He knows my every need.”
“He understands. And oh, when I call, he's always here.”
Listing his best attributes, she speaks as if God were a real person.
An intimate friend who lives two doors away.
“My constant source of comfort when I'm in pain,” she continues.
And she's had more than her share of illnesses. It's a fact.
“There is no experience that can compare to this. I should know.”
“I've lived for 80 years.” She pauses, this is credence enough.
She doesn't want me to miss out. A mother myself, I feel her love.
“It could be yours too” she adds. “just for the asking, for the taking.”
I imagine calling a service bureau on the telephone
And signing up for a thirty day trial – at absolutely no charge.
“I could die in peace if it were His will. I have lived a long, good life.”
There is nothing more I wish to do. She squeezes my hand.
Looking into the distance, she ends wistfully, barely audible.
More to herself than to me, “I only wish to see His face.”
Still holding her hand, I close my eyes and pictures of her fill my mind.
I hear her singing at day's end, cheerful and smiling.
Chores done, the last drink given.
A kiss here, a hug there, the family tucked in safe for the night.
I see her again, busy caring, loving:
Feeding the hungry, clothing the unclothed, nursing the sick.
Strangers, but they are smiling at her, touching her.
And I long to tell her. “YOU HAVE SEEN HIS FACE.”
thread that doesn't match
Lie down naked in an alien land
Burn the memory books
Let buzzards haunt your dreams
Cry out for silence knowing
midst young lithe bodies
And God saw that it was good.
one thought
You closed the door behind you
Outside the front lawn swept clean
He watched you go
F
I see graying hair and falling cheeks
Crows have left their feet in the corners of my eyes
The changes on the inside are less imposing
I wake up this morn in a tent
It glints off glass in brilliant shafts
It drips off the ends of leafy branches
It clings as freshly mown grass
In June the Rio Grande is flooded
Elephant Butte reservoirs are opened
and Las Crucens throng the banks at Picacho
for their annual river raft competition
One year we floated Babar
The sun shines warm and late
on idle afternoons at Percha dam
We munch on feta sandwiches
and spy on fish hiding in silvery shadows
safe for another day
When the river bed lies exposed
with tumbleweed wedged in arid mudflats
and sky and clouds are reflected in water pools
we gather tamarix reeds
for our vase in the hall
The bosque is hushed in winter
scraggly branches reach out to gray skies
bicycle paths lie hidden under moldy leaves
on Tingley Beach no children throw bread
to waiting snow geese
________________
LITTLE INDIGNITIES
From the way that little kid looked at me
You'd think I was a hundred years old
I was only trying to help
But when I bent down to pick up the ball
after it bounced into the road
the kid hurried over and picked it up before I could
Why'd he do that? What was he trying to prove?
I wasn't going to take the ball home
I would have thrown it back to him
Did he think I couldn't bend over?
Sure, I can bend. Look, I can almost reach my knees
Ouch ahhhhhhhhhhh
I think something cracked in my back
Yes, it's my back. My back's broken
I'm going to be stuck in this stoop forever
SOMEBODY HELP ME
The kid runs over again “Do you need a doctor?”
I don't need water. I need a doctor.
That's what I said sir. “Shall I get a doctor?”
How can you be a doctor?
You can't be a doctor. You're just a little kid.
“SHALL I GET YOU A DOCTOR?”
YES, but you don't need to yell at me
I'm not deaf. I'm hurt.
________________
NIGHT REVELATIONS
The moon and I are friends
Same as Reiner the midnight DJ
Who talks and talks
It's easy when there's no one in the room
And safe
No looks that say you're losing it
No rejoinder that makes you seem silly
So you shut up and be quiet
I see his insides
How the wheels and gears
And other spare parts of his life stack up
I feel his confidence
The sense he makes
From the confusion and contradictions
Of his world
Lacking Reiner's coolness
I scream and yell and whimper
In my solitary room
With my gutless innards
The woman in the moon smiles back
Sadly knowingly
________________
COULD'VE
for my parents on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary
So much could go wrong
Inside the margin of possibility
When first you pledged to journey together
You had no way to know
How strong the storms could blow
Nor how many nights would find you
Head in hand, pondering the road ahead
So many grow bitter from life's trials
And haughty from success
But you are sculpted by the wind and rain
Into gentle contours of grace
Into pillars of humble wisdom
And pausing at another bend we find
So much could go right.
________________
FIZZLED OUT
You surprised me on my thirteenth birthday
with a pair of blue leather slippers
The week before Ravi
stopped me in the hall to trace
the outline of my right foot
I hadn't a clue why
I had the mumps when I turned fifteen
At twilight a brown paper bag
was delivered to my bedside
stuffed with firecrackers
and just in time for Diwali
It was from you
Smiling self-consciously in the sky room
you brought it to me yourself
and waited while I tore off the wrapping
and tried on the blouse
salmon colored in soft cheese cloth
I was twenty-one
I wave away the empty-handed postman
and watch the sun set on my fiftieth
________________
SECONDS?
for the 50th wedding anniversary of Aunty Juanita and Uncle Justin
These have to last a week said ma
Unpacking bananas from the shopping bag
Not like there – poking her chin
at the Singhs's house across the way
Where they eat two or three at a time if they wish
A dozen bananas might vanish inside of five minutes
of returning from the market
Ma said nothing more but her eyes intimated
What inexcusable extravagance, such permissiveness
Surely her younger sister knew better
In our house excess was a sin
saved only for Christmas
The rest of the year we lived the virtues
of moderation of self-restraint
With five children to clothe and feed
Ma didn't have much choice I imagine
but to ration and limit and divide
When weary of exercising temperance
we slipped across the way to aunty's house
There we gaped at the abundance of food
Every pot had something bubbling
something stewing, something baking
We were dizzy with the aromas of aunty's
hospitality and uncle's warm infectious laughter
And we left dauntless with a new knowledge
for the disregard of thrift
Now when I eat two or three bananas, or indulge
in a moment of unproductive simple enjoyment
I smile and think -- just like the Singhs!
What unseen forces colluded to bind us close
One of us . . .
For these and other delightful and meaningful
SIT STILL
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