sunday afternoon

Finn, brushing his curls from his eyes, earnestly asking to go to the park. “I pack my bag mom, I got my toys.  Let’s go?” I  stayed up too late the night before, fixated on a train wreck of a reality tv show.  The dog woke me at 6 am, her cold nose in my back, asking for breakfast. “Ok,” I yawn, stretching, standing.  Let’s go.

Water bottle, Spider-man mask, the blue transformer and a Wolverine “I can read!” book.  Off we go.

We rarely get days like this on the peninsula. Barely a speck of white in the sky, slight, sweet breeze off the water, sun warm on my freckled, pale shoulders.  These are the days tourists flock here for. 

Finn squeals at the sight of the slides and the swings, the big climbing boulders.  He hurriedly tries to work his buckle, his sweaty little hands uselessly pushing the release button.  Finally, free from his car seat, he skirts the fence, up to the playground. He is wearing his flip flops and decides to switch into his tennis shoes, as the sharp little rocks find their way to the soft soles of his feet.

He had tossed his tennis shoes into his back pack and I hadn’t checked to see which ones.  I saw they were the too small ones, the black ones with the white stripes. He still manages to push his foot into them, only to take a step and change his mind. “It’s okay, mom, I wear my ‘fip fops.”

One hour turns into two. I take the occasional break from running, chasing, to open my book and try to find where I left off, only to hear his voice calling from across the playground, “Mommy! Watch this! Are you watching? Mom!”

A blonde haired little girl walks up, holding hands with her very pregnant mother. Finn’s eyes widen in delight. “My friend! My friend is here!” Finn doesn’t know a stranger. Everyone is his friend.

I observe the little girl and her mother, communicating with their hands. She is deaf.

I whisper to Finn that she can’t hear his voice, that her ears aren’t the same as his. He stares curiously, unabashedly, as four-year-olds do, and watches them talking with their hands.

A few minutes, barely, and they are running, playing.  Her hands fly, and he wants to be part of it. He starts moving his fingers, slowly at first, and then, gaining confidence, flinging them around in earnest, his brown eyes searching her face for approval.

Another hour, and it’s time to leave. His friend is gone, and I zip up his bag, feeling the sweet burn of my now rosy shoulders.  It will be miserable later, but it’s everything right now.

At home, he sits across from me on the back patio, hands sticky with strawberries and peanut butter. His eyes are tired and I say so.  “I don’t got tired eyes, Mom! I got wake up eyes!” he responds, widening his eyes and giggling.

He quiets down a bit, eyes trained on his peanut butter cracker.  Soon, his chin drops, and he is asleep, sitting in his chair.

Illahee

3 years on

and still,

eating oranges on your porch,

and the slant of the sun off the water

lingers

I wonder if you remember,
laughing at the flowers I picked.

(you called them weeds)

but they still sat in water

on your kitchen table

that summer was so hot

the nights, too

especially the first

do you remember?

it’s strange to think about,

now

that we almost bought a house

I remember, your eyes, when we pulled up the carpet,

and saw the oak,
dusty, but there

and the weight of your hand

on the small of my back

in Discovery Bay, when we met,

that last time,

for a beer.

3 years on, and still

death on a monday

nothing to say (so much)

“why don’t you ever write about me?”

you wondered aloud,

one night, in july

eyes trained above my head

whisky-heavy breath

not quite reaching my face

i tried to, 

you see,

but my hand ached,

pencil gripped tightly

as i searched for something to write

that i knew
would stay-
something

(you wouldn’t erase)

Moments

He stands in front of me, his hair dark and soggy with shower water, sloppily combed to the side,  sliding his delicate hands over the random shit on my nightstand, nonchalantly. He has no boundaries- what is mine is his, and that is all he has ever known. Absentmindedly, he fingers the edge of one of the books I haven't yet finished, rests on my camera, and pauses for a split second before he raises it to his face. He aims his probing little eye through the finder, focuses on something across the room, and then sets the camera back down, with a sigh. His eyes meet mine. He isn’t embarrassed that I'm watching him so closely; he isn’t that self-aware yet. He stretches up, up, reaching his scrawny arms above his head and yawns, loudly. 

I catch a whiff of something, soapy, clean.

"Are you wearing deodorant?"

"Yes,"  he answers, matter-of-factly. "It makes me feel like a man."

Then he turns and skips out of the room, his spiderman pajama shirt tucked into the back of his underwear.

your urgent matters

only a few weeks into

it (whatever it was)

you came home

reeking of  

stained, soured hours

and stale smoke,

from the road

twisted in your sheets

as the door slammed

your hello

you pushed your tongue

feverishly inside me,
and my lips split red
against my teeth

didn’t even notice
the wet pillow, or

the damp on my cheeks

when finally,

you
were through

(how did you not see?) 
that night,
even the flowers were bleeding

can we just rewind

if only

you'd been

a one-night stand,

drenched in wine,

sweat soaked sheets in a peach-dusted dawn

just a hazy recollection of some

lustful, wasted night
where the morning fog
found you gone

the weight of you (me)

“It’s when someone else’s happiness depends on me- that’s when I find it hard to breathe.”

that’s what she said. that’s what she wrote. that’s what she sang, drenching every note with who gives a fucks and leave me alones.

in the mirror, smearing the fog away, it was hard to lie to herself. the fear of her happiness depending on someone else- that’s what really kept her at bay.

but we found common ground, in our blood, in our sound

you whispered in the dark
about the things
    that break you

and all I could think
about
was how
those
are the things

    that

make me

viva

burnt dust
seeps through the window,
slides against the curtain,
threadbare

moves
in la brisa
piano playing fingers
at the finish
de una canćion de amor

car siren wails,

incoherent spanish
drifts up

shadows still paint
the walls,
again

at 3 am

different room,
same thoughts

just mixed
with hindsight

and

tequila shots




for reference: let's talk about the weather

great expectations

when the glass was full,

i almost expected you

to flick it 

to the ground

and you did

with a twist 

of your wrist

i just didn't expect

     you 

to make 

     me

walk on the pieces

barefoot and 

bleed-ing

all because i don't need you to breathe

or be

timing (and maybe silver linings)

they flitted around,
like birds

sketching
his words

absorbed in
the dance of his hands,

i very nearly missed
the glance


(nearly)

lest you forget

I'm pregnant. I let the words roll around my mouth, my tongue. It's yours and I'm pregnant. It sounded foreign. Pregnant. I'm pregnant and it's yours. How do you tell an almost stranger that you're carrying their child? I sat in my car, the heater blowing stale air at my face, no tears. The trees were bare, the ground cold, hard. An empty bird's nest sat, half undone, in the crook of a branch. Just sitting. Waiting.

Chiseled jaw line, hooded eyes. He was quiet, secretive. I'd met him at work. Our first date was at a nondescript college bar, one gray, grainy afternoon, only one month prior. Two nights later, we apparently hit the jackpot. Fuck. How did I do this to myself.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, eyes flitting to the rearview mirror. Waiting. His truck pulled into the lot, circled and parked. I was out of my car in an instant, walking across the spaces, dead leaves crunching under my step. He got out and looked up, confused for a second and then his face lit up, a smile spread across, his white, perfect teeth shone.

He crossed the remaining space between us and walked to me, looking at me with an expectant grin. Then he saw my face. And his changed.

What's wrong?

I just looked at him, the words I'd practiced frozen in my throat, not even making it to my tongue. I looked down at the bottle he was carrying. Jack Daniel's. It dawned on me that it was New Year's Eve. I looked up, the air icy against my hot cheeks, chafing, burning.

You're pregnant.

It wasn't a question. It just was. There. It was out. I let my breath out.

I looked at him, stared through him. Nodded.

The crack of his knees on the ground was like a gunshot. That sound told me everything. I turned towards my car, as he kneeled, dumbfounded, in the middle of the parking lot.

checking in

Just checking in with the land of blog. I've been out of the loop, lately, but I just wanted you who  read my shit to know that I'm not dead. Lots of overwhelming changes in my life, recently, and I've been slightly uninspired. Just bogged down.

swing of things....get it? get it? i'm funny.

I resigned from my first teaching job and accepted a job in Mexico, sold my house and just about every item in it, save my coffee maker, some mugs, and my clothes. Ok, and some books. I've been a bum, and currently, child and I are camping at my parent's house in Houston, waiting on our visas to come through, so we can get over to Durango. The school year actually started Monday, there, so I will be coming in late, which is daunting. Hopefully, we will be there within the next two weeks.

Hope you all are well. I will try to get back into the swing of things, soon.

on being five

perched on the stoop,

in his ketchup-stained

batman suit

she shooed him out,

when that man pulled up

in his rusted-red toyoto

pick-up truck

counted ants, and

gingerly placed ritz cracker

crumbs in their path

wiped his nose

with the back of his hand,

lodged tiny missiles

at the cigarette-stuffed

dr. pepper can

stared hard

into the blood-stained sun,

and when it started to fade,

he closed his eyes

to the sounds

those sounds

from inside.

she was supposed to teach him how to tie his shoes today.

it reminds me

the color yellow,

it reminds me

of the mustard stain

on that old ranger’s shirt

(it eventually became mine)

that time

you caught a foul ball,

cheeks rosy and chaffed

from the wind

 

we snuck out,

giggling, like teenagers

on a first date

while Bibby was pitching,

to that drafty old ford

that was always out of gas

made it back inside

for the last inning

pretended not to notice

that couple who stared

(a few buttons were missing) 

when it’s almost raining,

but not quite

just a slow trickle,

gaining momentum,

it reminds me

of early mornings,

and your broken coffee pot,

how it would sputter

the grounds would float,

dark, like ants,

when you added cream

and i would turn up my nose,

and drink it black

i would sit in front of your stove

because the heater was broken

and read

while you worked intently

at your math

caught you staring

through the doorway,

once

i remember how you laughed

and laughed

(and laughed)

silence is golden

porch whispers
at three in the morning
citronella candle smoke
burns sweetly in my nose
humid nights
and the sound of silence in the air
the reason i can't find the words
isn't because they aren't there
it's just they sometimes get frozen
by the intensity of your stare

plans

hot july moon, summer of 99

twisted the warm water
out of my tangled hair
threw my head back,
and giggled at Carrie
as we danced in the spinklers
those sultry, texas nights

our tiny bikinis covered
everything,
and nothing

my insides hiccupped
but, still
I pretended he wasn’t cruising by,
cold beer in the back,
one-pump gas-station town
Friday nights

he idled at the corner
and we skipped back inside

he’d be back tomorrow

maybe then,
I’d go for a drive

your words, they wreck me



 

 

 

she opens her mouth,

and diamonds fall out

 

early mornings at

the waffle house

brand new information

I've created another blog. Not because I'm deserting this one; the other one is for family and friends, and even former students, to follow Caden and me on our new adventures next year. We are moving to Mexico in August. Just accepted the position last night.  So I created a travel blog to document the whole process. I'm not connecting the two as this one is for more personal stuff, and I can cuss here.  I'm going to keep other one g-rated. Or try, at least.

Poetry-wise, I have several things to post, but they all need editing, and I haven't had time lately. I will try to post them soon. Miss all you lover-faces.

http://quesoadventures.blogspot.com/  < ~~ new blog



I wonder if I'll finally be able to tan in Mexico?

the bay

contemplate my toes,

nails painted moonbeam black (are beams black?)

and the tops of my feet,

sunburned, smeared

with aloe grease,

and bits of sand,

grainy against raw skin.
laughter floats up,

answering voice is low,

somber, in drink

soured reek of seaweed,  

cloying in this heat

languishes in the twilight

and my damp,

salt soaked hair

sticks to the side

of my flushed cheeks
 

idly, i sip  

from a plastic

dixie cup

and

swish sweet white wine

through my teeth 

air conditioner,

rusted red, time- worn

blows, stale and chilly

hum muffled

by a clouded,

sliding glass door

weak strains

from the clock radio

escape

Otis Redding sighs

in my ear

 

        I’ve been……. loooving you,

            for soo looong now

 

shamelessly bleeds

into the lull of the surf,

briny against the craggy,

jagged shore
 

muted mourning

of the sea gulls

wrenches me

from the inside out
devastatingly beautiful

in its gritty allure

 

 

                                                                                   -LS-

 

 

 

In the summer, I take Caden to the gulf. Galveston Bay. Usually, it’s just the two of us. It’s one of my favorite places to go. I do realize it’s the redheaded stepchild of the beaches, but there’s something so enchanting , so alluring about its grit. The mess of seaweed, twisted, bunched on the beach. The ramshackle, salted wooden houses, wasting away- their ratty, threadbare curtains, a placid, slight movement in the dark windows. There are so many stories to be found, it seems, down each crumbling, broken road,  and each will eventually lead you down to the coarse, rocky beach. We stay at the Commodore. It’s old. Cheap. Brick walls. Faintly stained curtains. Sliding glass doors that don’t latch all the way, so a layer of salt coats the mirrors. I adore that hotel, because every room faces the ocean, and every room has a story.  At night, after little dude falls asleep, buried, underneath sheer sheets, sweaty hands clutched around his worn, cotton stuffed tiger, I step out on the balcony, plant my ass down in the plastic lawn chair, and just breathe.  And think.