The Poetry Marathon

my kid’s kid is a goat, the
yogurt eating, head butting, Lord
of the pasture; is
gently teaching my
child to be a shepherd;
I
observe my child shall
put another’s needs before her own generously, and not
leave the other to desire or want

the labyrinth had been painted on the concrete
in the park,
wide enough for a wheelchair

a crack emerged in the concrete
in the very center of the labyrinth
and a dandelion emerged in the crack
whispering
life and yellow belong here

the boy child found the dandelion there
past yellow, now puffed up with wishes;
he picked the dandelion in the center of the labyrinth
blowing the wispy seeds into flight
beyond this place
passing over labyrinth boundaries
soaring away to find new cracks in the earth
as the boy child wished
his wispy wishes
that this wheelchair could somehow have wings

one dandelion seed landed
on the boy child’s shirt
and together they wandered the labyrinth path
emerging from the inside out
to a world full of cracks
and yellow

my son calls me Madre
not because I speak Spanish
or he speaks Spanish
but to distinguish himself from his sisters
and make our relationship unique
with a word
a name:
Madre

to name is sacred
holy
gives substance and connection
to the one who names
the one who first breathes life
into another, through naming
creating a tether, a ground tie
longer than an umbilical cord
with roots and wings

I never named another
who did not first find my body to be home
but I named a son
who is bold enough
to name me
to name us
not because he’s a Momma’s boy
but because
he knows Madre when he sees her
a forever home
with roots and wings

on the 4th of July
after the parade
all of the children
gathered in the field on the north side of the fairgrounds
together

this ground was safe,
for children to run and reach and scramble
chosen for its safety
surrounded by a fence
keeping all the children inside
together

a bulls eye for one
this field of children
looking up
anticipating
together

a perimeter of parents
cameras
beer in plastic cups
waiting and watching
these children
together

the distant hum
of a small plane
a crop duster
swinging low
with a cargo of 1000 ping pong balls
dropped over the field
together

falling like feathers
that bounce
or are caught in small hands
children like mother hens sheltering eggs
fill their make shift t-shirt basket nests
together

treasures,
not only ping pong balls
but ping pong balls stamped with fair prizes
a hot dog
a slushy
or perhaps a five-dollar bill
and all the children leave the field with bounty
on cloud nine
together

I woke
with spittle on my tongue
a fire in my belly
a prayer in my pocket
but not a lot of hope

I trudged
through a day meant for Sabbath
but loaded up with the firewood that stokes
a fire in my belly
until the burn is a burn that burns
you

I managed
to swallow the words
with spittle on my tongue
that would sooth your burns
or at least comfort you a little,
that spittle

I slept
still holding all my money and
a prayer in my pocket
saving those hopes
for another day
for another you

she buried ambition in the dirt
in the cemetery
not by the lilac bushes
but with the bodies,
a rotting corpus of potential and desire
reeking of risk and rejection

she asked me not to visit the cemetery
which is how I knew what was buried there
but I went anyway
and left tulips already cut
without a vase or water,
just tulips lying upon the dirt
the most appropriate tombstone

she passed up promotions
said “no” to love
never rode in an airplane or a train or a sailboat
didn’t have a library card
and didn’t keep a diary
she was never in the room when someone was born
or someone died
until it was time for her
to be buried in the cemetery
in the dirt;
it was winter, and no one took flowers
or paid for the tombstone:

a neon colored sign that will eventually fade,

eternity now

the geraniums have been listening

to Leonard Cohen

everyday;

I tried to introduce them to

Billy Joel

but they were not interested

in more than a broken Hallelujah

so we all sit in the evening

sipping sunsets from our wine glasses

longing

for something we can’t imbibe

and holding on tight to all of our petals

clay woman;

the womb of her belly
earthen dirt mixed with water
bled on the sheets
during the fire of passion
and whispered in the wind
love, love, love
as his hands shaped her
into his desire
and she dried and cracked and broke
not having been watered

dust woman;

my mother ironed my school shirts

white blouses that go with plaid skirts

and tucked her love in the pockets

now I’m the mother who irons rarely

trying to raise my kids so fairly

making sure to buy clothes with extra pockets

and when the day is ending

and I am missing or feel I’m fending

I treasure what I find in the laundry pockets

so now I am collecting

what others think is for rejecting

the lining of your work pants’ pockets

the new coat of paint helped

what did Jessica call it?  tidal wave?

its blue, light blue, with a teal accent wall at the entrance

Judy is working on putting up sheers in the doorway

to blot the light so I don’t get migraines

I have a big girl desk now,

the old one was a child’s desk

a big child, but a child’s desk

and my big girl desk is turned so instead of facing the wall in the back corner

I’m facing the people who arrive,

no one puts Teri in the corner

anymore.

but the big thing that changed

is that after fifteen months

I finally chose

not

to be subordinate to the empty chair in the office

the place he used to sit

used to type

used to be

used to send all those e-mails from

the chair everyone knows is empty now

that chair

I no longer will be

subordinate to.

because that chair is empty

and my chair has me

and I am enough.