Poetry
My Mother and St.
Christopher
Forthcoming in Kakalak 2009 Poetry Anthology
She flew away from France the
first time
before anyone knew about the Beatles.
Pressing her St. Christopher against her plaid shirtdress,
gin on her breath, my mother listened
to the props slicing through foggy air
thick like tongues.
On one side of the gold face
Christ and Christopher,
his Hercules-powered arms encircle the infant
halo-bound, they both cross the river.
A flip of the talisman
reveals
two Ferraris blazing under Mont Agel
as a sailboat plays in the Port of Hercules.
Christ is the front car, backed by Christopher
who relies on His wake and instinct
on the steep Monaco curves.
This medal, my inheritance,
cool
next to my pale child skin
on the Boeing 747 to Paris,
my French grandmother kissed me with it
on my fourth birthday.
I must keep this necklace secured
in a leather box under my twin bed with my
other nice jewelry,
but now the chain is tucked into my sailor-striped top,
not to get snagged or stolen.
I rely on my mother to
navigate
customs. She fills the air with D’accord, Merci and S’il
vous plait,
polite words to match her burnt orange skirted suit she
bought expressly for this trip. She never sleeps.
Maybe St. Christopher staves away
delays and cancellations,
crashes, hijackings, and water landings,
but not her mother and sister she’ll soon see.
I feel her blackness but I
can’t patch
her love and loathing like the silver squares on the TWA’s wing,
or help her cross her bottomless river.
I never hold my mother’s hand.
***
Easter Sunday
Honorable Mention, Love Poem Category
North Carolina Poetry Society 2009 Contest
The baby's pink sock is between
a hard place and a clock
without a second hand.
She squints at the space
the swirled bears make
every time her older brother twirls
the five puckered colored
charms into fans.
She knows he’s silly
since he never
looks before he leaps
into the chocolate milk
he stirs into mounds.
I'm their mother who earns pink tickets
after blue lights and sirens flash
when I forget haste makes waste.
Do I want to leap over a cliff
or shout to the clouds when he
says, "Just like the other time, Mommy"?
Yeah, I put all my eggs in one basket
full of needles and blackberries,
cream and sand,
lollipop licks and middle-aged bananas.
Easter's not too early this year
since I need more green and second chances.
***
Color Therapy
The Raleigh
Quarterly, Fall 2008 Issue
Red is a wrong stove burner
left on while I do dishes,
check e-mail and feed my son carrots and cereal.
Red is my hair, feet and ankles after a two-mile run.
I can't shake the inflamed blush for hours.
Red is my four-year-old
son’s energy
that scratches and tears through
the curtain of his day.
Red is a rash on my back that won't heal,
red is the inside of my lip
after kissing you on the night before our wedding.
Red is wax pooling in three
mounds
on our new beige carpet.
The thick candles a promise,
consuming space on our dresser,
their flames flicker & die
to the ceiling fan’s metronome above our bed.
Red is my December birthday surprise
& Christmas wrap all over the living room floor,
wicker and plastic trash cans close to exploding.
Red is the seven-week-old
life dripping out
of me on the bathroom tile —
she was
our Scorpio daughter.
***
Carport
Carpenter
Published in Spring/Summer 2008 Issue, Main Street Rag
My
hands scarred below the knuckles,
thumb nails split,
yellow like old caulk at the nailbed.
A thin circle on the left hand,
tanned reminder of a tossed commitment.
I
build a carport in suburban D.C.
for a one car, four-person family
where the summers suck vacuumed humidity
& the winters ice glass roads.
Now to cut the wood, sand the planks,
measure with a ruler.
My tool belt bangs against my hip
as I wrestle fickle nails with torn flesh.
My
body is a '78 Chevy El Camino,
pewter blue, silver rails along the bed,
creaky on turns with shitty acceleration on entry ramps.
I wonder myself how I smoke and work,
but I have strong teeth and don't need an ashtray.
***
Domestic Duties
(For Billy Collins)
Published in the Kakalak 2008 Poetry Anthology
You are the
coffee mug and the honey,
the wax and the sponge,
and the pink roses blushing against our house.
You are the laundry folder, the trash collector,
the dishwasher, and the Barbecue King.
However, you are
not the mop,
the vacuum cleaner or the Fantastik.
You are certainly not the water
running down our tap into my used Dasani bottle.
It is possible
you are the old ice cubes
in our freezer. Maybe you’re even the
Tupperware containers tumbling
on the floor every other day.
Perhaps you
resemble the pear trees
in our front yard, but not quite.
Not quite.
Speaking on the
plentiful imagery of the domestic world,
I am the sound of coffee brewing at 6:30 am on Monday.
I also am the soft eggs
you break in the metal bowl,
the milk you taste in your coffee
and the lemon you bisect for your evening tea.
I am also the
glass vase, the dish towels,
and the ironing board.
But don’t worry,
I am not the coffee mug and the honey,
nor the roses that bloom for a few days.
You must always be the rose I place in my vase.