You, a boy who can’t usually find his own shoes,
who has come home with the same exasperated message
about not working to your potential
written on so many report cards over the years
that I ought to have it printed on t-shirts, or business cards,
or your forehead.
You, who can play music,
and write songs and sing them–
A way you forged for yourself:
Desire, practice, practice, and beauty.
You, who can choose to charm
most anything you want from the world
which shakes its head and hands it over,
with a smile.
You, who carries all that weighty potential so lightly—
like sun inside a loose-lidded box.
Category Archives: Family
Potential
Acceptance Speech
Our cat has nominated me for Human of the Year,
All on account of me knowing the important spot behind his ear,
And the promise of a steady supply of tuna.
In my acceptance speech which, I admit, I’m already writing in my head,
I’ll generously acknowledge the team that made it possible:
The tuna himself, plus those two small children
Who lobbied hard for you, finally convincing me on the day
They were so desperate for a pet that they named a ladybug.
I’ll thank the ladybug,
and the volunteers at the animal shelter
And the luck that led us to meet each other’s eyes,
Mine brown, yours brilliant green
And make our choice.
Now those children are on their way out into the world
Transforming you from a family pet, to mine,
And transforming me from a mom raising kids
To a woman with a cat.
Not your fault, I’ll say in the speech,
And bow for applause.
Nearly Empty Nests
are crowded with artifacts.
The robin’s left with one strand of tinsel,
some dried grass, and a scrap of blue silk ribbon.
I get soccer cleats, Legoes
and the ruins of a medieval castle
built entirely of sugar cubes.
Superbowl Party
Whenever I think of moving away, choosing a different life, another thing happens inside this small town. At halftime, the men and boys head back to the kitchen for more chicken wing dip and stromboli and chocolate truffles shaped like tiny footballs. Only the women stay with Beyonce, our mouths hanging open, all of us reminiscing about the year it was Springsteen.
Outside, snow keeps falling hard. And despite the many mistakes I’ve made, this is where I raised my children. So even now, in the middle of the storm, none of us is far from home.
January Thaw
Some daughters drift away. Like fog, there then
lifting then gone. Others need a sharper break.
Something swift and cold and painful.
Every girl has her way of learning to leave.
Fits and starts. Till they can walk
away and back again,
grow confident that after every turn
towards home or away
they can turn around again. This takes so much practice.
We spent last weekend, mother and daughter,
doing nothing much. In sweaters and soft socks.
Ice cream for dinner. Cafe breakfasts with friends.
Popcorn and old TV shows. Mostly, music playing.
All night we heard crashes outside the windows.
Icicles, built over long winter weeks,
melted and fell from the roof.
January thaw. In the morning, for one day,
we could see the grass again,
so green and welcome I wanted to cheer, to bend down
and kiss all growing things in thanks,
for the reminder that this frozen world will pass, in time.
Collecting Guitar Picks
You shed them the way other people
drop gum wrappers and opinions–
that is, everywhere.
Today, I found one in the shower.
They gather in shoes and pockets
under chairs and piano benches
on bookshelves and windowsills
in the driveway or the cat’s bowl.
Last summer, I dug one up in the garden.
Almost heart shaped,
they look as if a heart forgot itself, relaxed
with a deep sigh
and stopped holding in its stomach.
I collect them all,
only to hand them back to you
the same way I hand you sandwiches
and stories from your childhood,
curfews and unwanted advice
and money and very occasionally,
jokes you laugh at–
all you take and lose and cast off
things I hold for you
like stepping stones
you can follow forward
going wherever you dream
inside that laughing, mysterious head of yours.
Wipe That Look Right Off Your Face
if I could
I’d take a giant eraser to the years
and scrub softly
as I used to remove dinner
from your cheeks and lips and hair
rubbing your face till you laughed—
a warm cloth, water, a squeeze of baby shampoo
washed away squash and ice cream and pasta sauce
the way I’d now wash away teen smirks and superiority.
Afterward,
you’d shine.
Snowstorm
The sky brightened to steady grey
showing the swells and ridges of snow that fell,
the world busily churning it from the air while we slept.
Now, just rest. Breathe and look out the window
at this passing moment. Snow stopped falling
an hour ago.
Now, you try. See how quiet
Now, before anyone else wakes and we
hurry to match the world’s efforts by
making breakfast and mistakes and covering
them all with flurries of snow and words.
Vacation With Teenagers
She is on the couch,
watching her laptop
as if it’s about to do a trick
or reveal the meaning of life.
He is closed in his bedroom
with his books and guitar.
This goes on for hours.
“Kids these days…,” is an actual phrase
forming in my head.
Wake up.
He is writing a new song.
She is searching for her way in the world.
They are forging their paths,
while reclining.
After all I tried to teach,
they learned this:
To value being comfortable
on the journey.
Working the Angles
In the rainy grocery store parking lot
a little boy splashes
mesmerized by his shiny black boots.
I want to point him out, ask if you remember
how you wanted to sleep in rain boots at that age.
But I know better. We’re busy arguing
about dropping Trigonometry.
I’ll never need it, you say.
What is it good for?
I am almost sure
it has something to do with celestial navigation,
Mariners measuring angles,
Astronomers mapping distances between stars.
You roll your eyes.
Remind me you don’t plan a career
watching stars or the sea.
These days I could use a map.
Something to help me navigate
the distance between stars, or something closer–
the little boy you were,
the man you nearly are.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 