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Every poem holds its secrets
till it’s written down and opened
the same way this tangerine’s
cool spray of sweet and tart
is held under its rough skin
and the way it glows
knowing it was born
in a place that’s lovely to say.
How can you not glow,
being from Valencia?

Yesterday was for unpacking
Christmas decorations and memories.

They’re tumbled into a basket beneath the tree
all those floppy beanbag animals who, one by one,
had their morning to peek from the tops of stockings.

One stuffed reindeer watches now, a quizzical expression
stitched onto his felt face. Any minute
I expect him to step forward,
chosen spokesman for the crowd of puzzled penguins,
snowmen, elves, and puppies wearing Santa hats
tipped at jaunty angles.
He’s ready to ask aloud, on behalf of the group,
where those kids with the stockings went,
and by the way,
where did these extra grownups come from?

The huge copper vase,
a gift I didn’t know how to fill,
now holds roadside treasure from yesterday’s walk—
Milkweed pods, dried goldenrod, other
brown and lacy weeds I can’t name.

I shopped for ways to fill it
but every possibility
was too expensive plus
covered in glitter spray.

When all the time,
during my hours in fluorescent malls,
the world was offering itself
to every passerby, beautiful and shouting
Take me home, till somebody heard.

Already news radio overflows:
Ridiculous men with foaming minds
spout rabid rhetoric.

Everybody else
wounded but walking,
spent the day shopping.

Our children haven’t changed.
in snowsuits tucked in shopping carts,
overtired,overheated,overhyped on holiday as ever.

But we are people
Shaken suddenlyroughly from sleep           for this moment
We are awake.
You hear it
In every mall and Walmart              for this moment

No matter how hungrywhinybored the children
We calm them,in this cracked open moment,
with patience. We smile at each other
over the tops of their crankysweaty heads
despite and because
of all we’re reminded to cherish.

When you tune out news and tinny carols,
The fallout roars. We’re singing as loud as we can.

I’m in my car, at the gas pump,
when the news comes on.
I’m flipping through Christmas CDs
choosing a soundtrack
for picking my daughter up from college,
For bringing her home for the holidays.

Like everyone, I am desperate
to touch my children’s faces,
Hear their voices
Right this minute.

My only magic trick of the day,
I conjure this: My cell phone rings.
My son, oblivious,
with a ridiculous favor to ask.
If only he knew: right now, he could ask
for Anything and the answer would be Yes.

I can’t stop listening as I drive.
There is nothing, no solace anyone can conjure
For those parents, those children, those teachers.
My mind keeps changing stations,
Searching for something I can bear.

I keep imagining
A mother whose child made it out.
A mother whose child ran when someone said, Run.
A mother who will never, never in her long life
Take another breath
Like the breath she takes when she sees him.

Yesterday, you brought me a dozen eggs
from the farm down the road, sweetly
remembering my promise to poultry everywhere
to only eat eggs from chickens I know.

I slip the carton in the fridge, quick
so you won’t see the ones I already bought.
An easy deception. We’re in a hurry.
Out the door to the last in a dozen years
of school Christmas concerts.

Early this morning, I hard boiled the extra eggs
and couldn’t decide if this was a metaphor
for riches overflowing
or too many eggs in one basket
or even something about fertility
and the end of this long, wild ride
of being a mom, raising kids.

Who knows what it means?
Some days, this is delicious enough:
Steam rising from the pot of almost boiling water,
as I flip through the possibilities and
anticipate an egg salad sandwich.

In the taxonomy of living things
our cat belongs in the category of cranky old uncles,
grudgingly good humoured as long as you
keep open the supply chain of chicken and Cuban cigars.

We suspect he runs the world,
in sleepy allegiance
with all the other old cats
dozing on couches and porches
around the globe.

Without stridency of tone
or visible effort
beyond a certain personal charm,
they have kneaded and slept
their way to the top,
sending humans out each day
to earn money for catnip and canned food
while they nap and dream,
Benevolent dictators
of the perfect world that is.

Here’s a prayer
from the Church of Relief,
the Temple of Bullets Dodged,
the Mosque of Joy.

Other days, I’ll remember
theology is complex,
thick with unanticipated
tangles and dodgy outcomes.

Our family has prayed enough
in those other holy places
the Shrines of Why,
the Monastery of No.

But in the glorious now,
it’s only this carol in my head:
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you.(Repeat)

We wish you well, wish you a swift return.
We, the ones left here
in the waiting room of old magazines
and lurid wall art, drawings of
lungs, or hearts, or heads,
bright colored and reminiscent
of those pull-down maps
in elementary school classrooms.

Diagnosis. Anyone can see what is,
a collection of symptoms and temperature
readings. The art is in discovering
What it all Means.

You set out with your white coats,
rumpled hair, pale faces,
saddled as Shackleton
struggling to reach the goal.
Not a Pole, but an answer
you can bring back,
solemn or joyful, but fascinated
by the shape and size
of your discovery.

And we wait for you, whoever
we are in this long analogy
drawn out to distract us
from the waiting.
Perhaps we are the faithful
families of explorers,
hoping anxiously for
a return to normal.
Or the wealthy patron
funding this mad journey.
Or the reporter pacing
at the docks,
eager to be the first to hear,
dreaming of the big scoop.

Really, we’re willing to be
anyone, anywhere
except what we are.
Waiting, worried
with any second
the chance of tumbling
into the ice fields and chasms
of another expedition.