Sister

It is hardest to write to you.
You know all of my childhood secrets...
playground hiding places
rendezvous with neighborhood kids
torments that were real
and not.

And although you often wielded your
stature and age advantage over me
sometimes with brute force,
we have eventually arrived
at a new place in life.

You, you have Dad's need to control,
Mom's need to retreat,
and so much to say to the world.

I, I have Dad's need to communicate,
Mom's need for privacy,
and miles that separate me from my roots
and home.

And yet we are here, together, experiencing the world
from opposite sides,
opposite cultures,
opposite landscapes,
with the same memories and experiences of
childhood that brought us to
this point.
From this one shared point,
refraction.

Distant Virginia Rain

From my desert home,
I can still hear the
rain
falling steadily on that
tin
roof
in
Indian Valley.

Gathering itself together
where the angles met,
it came rushing
down
in
a
torrent-
a sometimes shower.

And you could almost
not hear
your
own thoughts
when it
rained-
Mellifluous
distraction.

Time to Go

Time collapsed as we reached out to finally talk
and then there were no more minutes
for me to explain away my bad behavior.

Then there was no solace from the hurt that I
may have inflicted due to my
inability to deal with life.

And you were left in our
exhausted air with no where to turn
to figure out who we were,
who we are,
who we are trying to be.

And all I can say is
I am sorry that I didn't tell you how much I love you,
how much I couldn't live without
knowing you are there, even when you are not,
how much I miss being a part of your every days,
how much I look forward to seeing you again,
and how sorry I am that my little girl
kicked a hole
in your bedroom wall.

Declawing Crabs with my Dad

What was the lesson we were meant to learn on that sweltering July day?
Father and daughters tracing brackish steps,
giddy with crustaceous ambitions.
I believe we had nets didn't we,
Or coolers to drop them in?
Perhaps the sun became too much for you,
or we did.
Perhaps the wait became too long for you,
or us.
Perhaps the persistent, powerful pinches
got the best of you.
Perhaps we were supposed to be home
before long,
but as we ultimately peered down upon the arduous catch of day:
a dozen or so
crab discs,
I had to wonder if there wasn't some
bigger, hidden
meaning.

It Takes Love

So it was that similar paths were taken,
similar roads driven,
similar days executed.

And she could not say that
experiences were completely
new,

but to behold in their eyes
a better way,
softer angle,
made it unblemished.

Perhaps words no truer were ever spoken,
perhaps they were spoken
before,
but to hold them in her heart,
home, and
land,
they blossomed.

This litter clad alley
would forever hold his
footsteps.
And this window,
her longing.

And that could just make the
waiting
breathable.


It takes love to see beauty.

What it Takes

It is night-
a welcome respite from frenetic, harried day-
although what constructs this agitation is unclear, its end is gratifying.
If I squint my hearing,
I can almost imagine the lull of the air-conditioner
to be a warm autumn rainfall,
hushing the ever-present thoughts that goad me on:
something is not quite right.
Still, and stillness is not easily obtained,
the night affords the luxury of solitude-
A deserved hiatus,
a whisper like cocoon that envelopes not only body but also mind,
and finally puts to rest the
noise of nocuous playing.
Something is not quite right...
be still,
be yielding,
bend twig,
bend.

A New Me

Were it possible,
I would dissect myself,
(remember that fetal pig in biology?)
And live as two remnants
Neither complete, yet able to function.
I would throw off my abaya of caution-
Send its amorphous black slickness
Flying into the night,
And then don a shawl
Of reckless abandon.

I would ravenously gnaw artichoke leaves,
Licking the sweet melted butter,
All the way to the heart,
Never letting the fear
of choking on the thistle
quell my pleasure.
I would forget my daily vitamins
And never take to heart the bottle’s
muffled insults
again.
And I would cross diagonally-
smiling.

My other me would be diligently
At work,
Studying Al-Ghazzali, Rumi,
and art.
So clear would be my mind,
I could paint cerulean circles while
Contemplating God.
Neither
lessening
the other.
And in the background:
Coffee- Beethoven-
And dust,
Dancing in
The descending
eddies of
sunlight,
sifted
through plated
Windows.

Light

Wisdom the stepsister of age
Knows that woman brimful of life
Sitting at the bar
Drunk with what dewier eyes mistake for alcohol
Not recognizing
passion
Unrequited.
Were it to be coupled
With beauty
The allure would drive
Boxier men to their death
sucking the oxygen from the air
But God in His wisdom
coupled not beauty with wisdom
But wisdom with age
Frail bones, steel hair, papery skin
A crackly light bulb cradling luminescence
She will not look beseechingly into
Your eyes.
Eyes that know what is possible for tomorrow
Yet what is probable
And that alone frees her to stir the
World
Her circle
Benefits from succor
She understands full well radiance
tosses off her
Overcoat
Walking unfettered
Into the
night

Mom and Dad

Traveling through the dust-caked, faded,
littered streets,
I know not what lies beyond the bend.
Strange cadences emanating from stranger faces,
unidentifiable smells and sounds
melded with exotic and mundane colors,
dance before me-
a tarantella of frenzied foreign fabric.

Each step I take on this uncharted journey
I dedicate to you.
Though across the sea you command that same chair,
your voice has guided me.

I search through time to
find you both
chasing dreams we shared
on creek banks
and hills filled with butterflies,
melody, and mud.

I reach out for you,
but you are
already here,
Traveling with me.
You are my words, music, thoughts, ideas, and vision.
And so I do face forward
traveling alongside you,
and yet,
missing
you so.

Childhood Wisdom

When you were little,
much smaller than now,
you took my hand
and
led me to the
little dead bird behind
the house.

Crushed by the contorted
neck and delicate beak,
you said,
"I can fix it"
and led me to another
field filled with
corn and flowers.

From here you said that God would
lift that bird into the wind
and carry him home
to his little bird family,
who, you said,
were no doubt,
worried.

And it was days before you led me back
to that first pasture
where the dead bird was
no more.
A jubilant face upturned to mine.

As it turned out,
it was just a matter
of
perspective.