First Taste

18 months old,
She tastes a
strawberry,
Between her naïve lips.

She giggles at its
sweetness.
Chews for a
second
Crinkles Her nose at the
seeds.

Mom looks away for just a
moment
She shoves the whole strawberry
with both hands in her
mouth
Furry leaves
make
her spit it out.

She takes a bite of a second strawberry.
This time she leaves the stem.

The Haphazard Ballerina

Her hair is wild, absolutely untamable,

And mischievous brown eyes flash

Between the tangles of silky brown strands.

The woman behind the microphone sings

Of love,

heartbreak.

And the little girl spins, flails, leaps

Weaving precariously between couples holding each other close,

Oblivious to the toes she is nearly crushing,

The peace she is disturbing.

Women peer over their husband’s shoulders

Some scorning the whirlwind of chaos

Some laughing to themselves

But all envying the utter lack of grace,

The ultimate display of care-free

The fragile dance of freedom and youth.

what five years have taught me simply

she leans over the cool, round table
in the corner of the writing center,
her back to the windows.
she is wearing sneakers,
trousers, a gold bracelet and a
windbreaker, her eyebrows drawn
on crookedly and her clothes stinking of
stale cigarettes. she is older than my
mother.
i take my seat, look to her face.
her morning's eyeliner has smudged badly
behind her square glasses. and i
ask her, what can i help you with,
while i watch her. she
peers into my eyes for a moment, and in thick
tones of greek, tries to explain.
she picks up an old pencil. points to
her paper. points to her articles.
gestures at the curling, crumpled papers
retrieved from her little girls' backpack,
as i watch her face. i don't understand
but her past tutors have given me their opinion
in their resigned-sounding reports:

“she doesn't know what she's doing.”

a pang of pity stabs my heart, as she
fumbles through her squashed notes.
i take her paper and begin to read, and
she stares off into
the distance, quietly, a sixty year old
woman in a twenty year old's land,
pencil clutched in fingers with
chipped red nail polish.

i bring her attention back to her
paper, and i am kind. i show her the
mistakes. i watch her face. for an
hour i watch the wrinkles get deeper
and smooth out as her expressions
change. the curve of her cheek is still
young. the hasty erasing of her
broken english leaves
dirty marks on the paper. but i ignore
my colleagues' comments because

at the end of the hour her face breaks
into a smile. she knows what she is
doing. and she asks to see me
next week. she looks young.

Simplicity

Eyes glued on the television ahead
Those are beautiful set of orbs
They are not big, dreamy or blue
And yet their brown beauty shines through.

Masticating as he enjoys the Planters
His lips move as he grinds.
From here I can only imagine his strong white teeth
Remembering how a smile modifies the shape
There is beauty in his whole face
He remembers to moisten his dry lips
Like a natural after thought.

As he takes another handful of the little feeds
With little concern for the rest of us
He is entranced by the sight on the screen.
Suddenly, there is a change
His eyebrows rise in anticipation
Of the pleasure of a win
GOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLL!

Titus

His eyes fixed on her hands
At a distance he waits
With a wagging tail
As she places the bone to her plate
He approaches her
With eyes so kind
And without words
She knows his mind

He receives his prize
With joy and zeal
Finds a corner to himself
To indulge in this meal
He eats it quickly
Leaving none to waste
Then scurried back to her
Maybe for another taste

2 Mirrors

Mac bag on the table

1, 2, 3 brushes

foundation applied...check

base...check

hmmm what colors

she looks back at the outfit

hmmm

she touches her skin

seemingly comparing the tones

eyes brighten at the epiphany of

green and gold on her lids

looks into a mirror image of an

already beautiful face

grimaces

quickly takes up arms with angle brush

gold into corners nearest nares

honey suckle pigment next to be applied

forrest green making egyptian extensions

where a hint of crows feet barely lie

blend blend blend

lower lids, mascara, eyes on the floor

gloss on lips

applied to a parted clownish smile

pucker

bat eyelashes coyly

points at herself as if to ask

who me?

feigns a laugh

one last look before she turns

to see me watching her

beautiful

the establishment

i shamelessly stole amrita's no caps style

christmas lights twinkle above

a green blue red patterning of the sky

we are not serenaded by a babbling brook

instead we listen to the melody of the drunk older gentleman

hitting on the 24 year old runner

our seats best any mezzanine manhattan has to offer

pool table mere feet away

the obese man’s plumber crack as he lines up for a shot

far superior to the best show Vegas’s caberet could offer

tuxedo dressed waitor? i think not

this establishment promotes independence

we order at the stained wood bar

i ponder the genius of this place expensive

wall ornaments replaced with paper plates

tacked on with the deals of the day

our food finally arrives

i smile at the slow service understanding

it is not inefficiency or lax service

there are larger forces at work

the establishment endorses conversation

it is an agent of societal change

fighting our fast food tv dinner ways

i watch him eat

reminiscent of the nature channel

crumbs of burger tangle up in his beard

a testament to the steely drive

the focus to the task at hand

spine erect, pupils dilated, erector pili engaged

a product of countless ancestors working for a single goal

to produce offspring who one day

could inhale a one dollar cheeseburger in under a minute

the pinnacle of evolution

three cheeseburgers

two fishburgers

two chicken burgers

two fries two onion rings

eleven dollars to feed four people

forget the fed

these guys should be in charge

Chains and Stitches

At the hospital waiting room, there she sat
Chain to chains, it grew longer
Stitch after stitch made it beautiful
It must be a beautiful little thing
A beautiful thing as she added pink
And some more pink
It must be a she

Stitch after stitch made it beautiful
As the baby at the corner cried
She look, smiled,
added more pink stitches
She stretched it
Rubbed it on her skin
It must be a beautiful, soft thing
Mama it’s a girl
A beautiful baby girl with soft skin
Tears roll down, smiles followed
Oh my angel
Here, this is her first blanket

NOM NOM NOM

I saw him as I turned the corner
and looked down the crowded dusty aisle.
He was distinct and round, holding something
distinct and round.

It was one of those sights
so captivating that it
instantly mutes the rest of the world
including my mother’s voice behind me.

Most of the year these grounds are meadows
Where deer fawn and frolic.
But for two weeks each spring, the fields are
threshed to make room for the tents and children.

He didn’t move much,
perhaps he couldn’t, the way he was planted,
perched atop a highchair wrapped full-body
in bright red bunny jumpers…floppy ears and all.

Pride of his parents, and perhaps
the first of a generation, so he had his very own plate.
Eat my boy, Eat!
His face was hidden perfectly behind the crunchy golden sphere.

His small mouth didn’t make much progress
against the task at hand, but golly was it a sight to see.
Working at its petals, three at a time…
fried strands doused in ranch and his grandparents adoration.
And secretly mine too.

He had everything he needed in this world,
mothers love, fathers devotion,
a cup full of dip
and a massive blooming onion
at the Walton fair.

A new way of living

He assumes his seat at the head of the table as he always does,
feet spaced wide apart below his chair,
bent arms to either side,
elbows just touching the edge of the oak table.
He waits for his bowl to come,
and as it is placed in front of him
his bent arms seem to relax ever so slightly
and he closes his eyes.
He drifts off to a time before,
when meals were something to enjoy.

He remembers the time of a backyard barbeque.
He would sit in the yard, grilling as he engaged in conversation with friends.
That first glimpse of the spring breeze brought with it a time of laughter and ease,
as well as a hint of smoked enjoyment.

He remembers the holidays,
the entire family coming together around a table of homemade breads and pasta.
As he enjoyed the food of his heritage he listened to the stories of the old,
hoping these traditions and recipes would remain for all generations to come.

He remembers a time when he did not have to think,
but could simply enjoy the meal in front of him and the people around him.
A time when indulgence did not have to impose its will
on his circumference.
He sits and sips his now cold soup and wonders,
how did I get to this point?
Going on three years he can feel the results,
but lives everyday with the sacrifices it takes.
He touches the soup to his lips and can only hope,
this new way of living won't change the things
he continues living for.

Study Break

Interrupted from a moment’s rest
To cut the garlic for dinner’s prep
With hilt of blade at leveled chest
Did slice precise with most adept
Strokes to cleave along clove’s crest
Until thin petals are all that’s left
Another task another test
For this young doc’s future success

A Woman's Wine

See, swirl, sniff, sip, savor

Subtle succulence, sincerely saccharin

It takes her world away.

It takes her world

away. It takes her

world away.

Lost for a moment

what could have been

now a ruddy reflection

left to ruminate

the roads not taken

savoring still grapes of wrath

lest she finds

her glass is empty

Tired

I’m so tired of their noise
drowning my thoughts
so I can’t think straight
I just want them to be still
And quiet
I’m so tired of their whining
Waking me up at night
Their perpetual needs
And how they always want to fight
I’m so tired of their mess
Bruising my bones
So I can’t stand
So I sit and wish they were already grown

Puberty

They lied to me,

This is NO gift, my spreading hips

Did this happen over night?

My jeans don’t even want to zip.

I googled it last night

kept reading ‘bout these tanner stages

He must’ve been confused

My hips and boobs are different ages.

Keep waking up from dreams

‘bout boys and girls doing awful things

Embarrassment and fear

That is all these thoughts can bring

I wanted to grow up

Wanted them to look at me and smile

But if this doesn’t quit

I’ll never walk down that aisle.

They tell me it will be over soon

All these changes in myself

But I’m worried more than ever

Am I becoming someone else?

Gaze

I look into your eyes and I find peace
I see calm, I find confidence and assurance
I find a step to climb and a rock to land
I look into your eyes and I find love
I see melody; I find strength and courage to go on
In your eyes I find refuge; a comfort zone
Now, I still look even though you are gone
I look to find the strength to live
I look for when you will call me, to have a place in you

Seeing the Music

lyrical translation

of things skantly heard

careful not to swallow me up

with melodies unplucked

colors unseen

but undoubtedly made

onlookeers cannot wrap

their minds around it

my fingers feeling out a tune

the imagery i make

body has given up making the music

of life

back and muscles on their last

need not even rise

the notes give them strength

creating fields of jasmine

only my nostrils have been blessed by

velvety crescendos remind me of things felt

i've only heard love

making music to illustrate it precisely

nerve endings force flesh over flesh

humorously

as if there was vitreous

but when life stands supported by staffs

who needs eyes?

Hysterectomy

In late May, we lie in wet grass,

Your warm shoulder pressed against mine,

And above us, the spidery veins of a black oak.

Branches twist and creep into the thick darkness,

Glowing with energy

Reflecting the light of the stars,

And then swallowed in the bountiful mass of leaves.

Silhouetted against the navy sky like the billowing smoke cloud of an explosion

And they taunt me.

Their life force bursting into bloom

Year after year

And mine for only 25.

Your hand touches mine, and I wonder

If you knew, would you care?

And, where will all that glowing energy go?

They will cut the branches and take away the leaves,

And will I be left with a stump

Rings that buzz with the vitality of each of my 25 years

Extinguished, sizzling into empty space.

A breeze catches the leaves,

sending them into a shimmering quiver that reminds me that they will fall.

And then I remember the roots

Diving deep below me

With the same vivacity of the branches.

I can feel my roots do the same in my body

Sending warm rays in all directions

Life and potential pooling and pulsating in my fingertips

Energy is not destroyed

It is rechanneled, shared

And so I take your hand and rechannel into you.

i pledge allegiance to the flag
of the united states’ internment camps
and to this republic for which i stand
with the stars and stripes in hand.
as one nation, under God,
beyond pearl harbor, before the bomb
packs me up behind barbed wire fence,
in rickety shacks and makeshift tents.

yet the 442 still marches on,
past a trail of nisei, dead and gone
in the name of a country indivisible,
whispering “shikata ga nai,” our faces invisible.
and at the end, in ’45,
with one train ticket and the scraps of our lives,
we quietly reflect on the freedom that falls
with its sister, liberty, and justice for all.


*442 - the 442nd Infantry Regiment composed of Japanese American citizens
*nisei - 2nd generation Japanese American citizens
*"shikata ga nai" - "it can't be helped," a common phrase echoed by the Japanese interred during WWII

The Saltonstall Family circa 1636-7

It is a curse I married into.
Living in the shaddows of the deceased,
And never measuring up to some level.

Orphanied children longing for a motherly love,
Accepting none from me.
Scared faces longing for a softer touch,
Rejecting my kind attempts to sooth.
Nothing I do is good enough.

Husband is also lost in his own world.
Attempting to remind the kids of their loss.
Oblivious of the distance between us all.

My baby too longs for more love.
For a chance to bond with his dad,
Not understanding the rejection he receives.

And all along the culprit is HER.
Critical of how I'm raising the kids.
Longing for an embrace from them,
And blaming me for the rejections SHE gets.

Oh, poor little souls!
Denying their thier mother's death,
But with no recollection of HER ever being.
And yet acknowledging that I replaced her somehow.

What a curse to marry like this!
Knowing that second will always be my place,
for SHE will never leave my life,
And my family will never be mine alone!

Vision Changes

Beautiful home, with beautiful vistas

Mountains overlooking the twisty roads

Servants attending to every need

Hot roast and delicious wine for dinner

He could be a ruler, a dictator

Even a messiah

A kingdom created

Men bow before him

It could be a religious frenzy

Or fear of a tyrant’s wrath

A man of many faces

Stern, strict, commanding, dominant

But who else has seen the subtle shift

The crinkled eyes, worried mouth

A face of compassion

Yet innocent eyes can only see what is in front of them

A bubbly nose, a scarred forehead, a liver spot

This man, this person is not scary

He is not powerful

other would grovel, spend their lives

trying to see that face

but without the slightest hint of compunction

the bored child pushes him away

Between the Clock and the Bed

I stand here,
between the clock and the bed,
my mind many ticks away from where my feet rest.
A moment for memories,
A second for stories,
The all just seem to circle around,
And then vanish in the blink of an eye.

I stand here and wait,
The sparkle in her eyes begin to expire,
as the sun sets on a day gone by.
Another moment of memories,
Another second of stories.

I stand here and wonder,
will this be the hour of judgment,
the time when the bells stop ringing,
and the ticks stop drumming.
Another moment with memories,
Another second with stories.

I stand here and stare,
my eyes grow wet,
my tears like the sand through an hourglass.
Yearning to stand in this room,
between the clock and the wall,
To move back those hands,

and bring back that moment,
and savor that story,
and make it all...
last forever.

Christ Among the Doctors

Innocence, so pure and sweet,

science and reason try to defeat.

They attack, relentless, with fire and mace

hastening still their fall from grace.

It take faith to know the unknown,

to believe what labs might not have shown.

But they, like Simon, have to touch,

as their faith doesn't amount to much.

The beauty of a child, the King of Kings,

he has no interest in worldly things.

Though they scoff, with books and laws,

with a smile he forgives their flaws.

As doctors of science, faith seems more elusive,

yet must the two be mutually exclusive?

Before the Shot ~ Norman Rockwell

Smells like a clean bathroom
and the floor is squeeky.
What is he going to do this time?
Oh no, not the needle again...I promised I wouldnt play around rusty nails!

I...I...Im not afraid
No sir not me, not one bit.
Ive slain dragons and sea monsters
and built castles in trees and mountains.

Is that so Larry? All by yourself?
Yes sir, just me.
Well brave knight, hop up here
there will be a small pinch on your bottom.

I...I...Im ready for the pinch
and I wont even close my eyes
because I am brave.
I will just turn around so I dont have to look.
Sniffle...U-N-I-V-E-R-S-I... OWCH!!

Cloud Gate by Anish Kapoor

A drop of heaven's mirrored mildew

Did land the park of a thousand years

Amongst the concrete wonders of the world
With body of shadow
Sky and
Smiling face
Nature's shape
Mankind's jagged grace


Distinctly alone
In shape and form

But no stranger to the wondrous stares
That steer away most guided strides
This curvaceous beast of mercurial cloud