To the Man Who Makes the Mylar, To the Woman Who Makes the String

I wonder what time you start your day
and if you wear a uniform to work
is it hot on the factory floor
beneath unfiltered shafts of light
descending through unopened windows
or cool like wet concrete
a panting dog would lie on
to escape a too warm day

Do you make your lunch in the morning
side by side with your child's brown bag
or is there a cafeteria where coworkers gather
dreading the whistle blow
marking the start of the shift
that seems to come much too quick

Perhaps you do not think them useful
these things that you create each day
and so lament your life's work
manufacturing frivolous objects
that hold air and tether it
before the inevitable pop

But I am here to tell you
that the heart shaped pink balloon
with the shiny silver string
suspended at the intersection
of Santa Monica and Yale
saved my life today

As it inexplicably appeared
bobbing along the road
floating free like an apparition
no, like an invitation
to purge the gravel of disillusionment
settled deep within my belly
to wrap the silver string around my wrist
and let love lead me where it will

From Time to Time

I recommend sitting on an old stone fence
from time to time
especially if you can sit high enough
to easily swing your legs
like you once did at the kitchen table
all those years ago
when your mother made you eat liver
with peppers and onions

Recognize what a comfort it was for her
to make the food her mother made
when she was small enough
to kick her legs beneath
the polished walnut table
that cost three months of her father's
steel mill worker salary

Imagine how tall your papa sat
at the head of his very own table
just one generation removed from the old country
and yet able to see his three small children
well fed and happy

Picture the glint in his eyes
as he admonished them to clean their plates
so they could all go watch a show
on the brand new television

No one had ever eaten liver and peppers so fast

Forgive yourself for turning up your nose
at your mother's simple offering
for declaring the sacred profane

And though you have been a vegetarian
for some twenty years
go back in your memory
slice a small strip
of the dense pungent meat
savor it with the gratitude
that while your mom's feet now easily touch the ground
she still likes to swing them a little
from time to time

In Praise of Knuckle Dimples

I could spend a lifetime
arm trapped beneath the furnace
of your downy head
sweat pooling in the bend of my elbow
nothing to do
but study the divots at the end
of each tiny digit
those perfect replicas of my Papa's
fingernails sized to scale
the smell of stale coffee
(your father's, not mine)
threatens to nauseate me
but I am willing to endure
the olfactory discomfort
to marvel at how even in your sleep
you tap out unheard melodies
on the keyboard of my skin
then reach out to explore the world
as a wave searches the sand
how graceful your fingers are
not the bumbling cub paws
I imagined they'd be
in the months before
the dawning of your face
rising above that blue curtain
the dividing line behind which
our bodies were unentwined
(is there a word for a simultaneous
beginning and end?)
I should answer emails
I should wash out that mug
I should get on with my day
And I could easily wake you
light sleeper that you are
(my genes, not your father's)
instead I must memorize
your purple petal eyelids
fringed in fine feathers
don't even get me started
on those wrist creases

Neighbor Boys

"I'll spray him with the hose
and you watch
he'll be meaner than ever!"
I hear the neighbor boys plot

"He'll hiss and run away
like a dumb dumb --
I'll spray and you watch
how fast that mean old cat
will waddle!"

They don't know
that the "dumb dumb"
sensed there was mischief afoot
and now sits sweet and happy
purring beneath the safety
of my office chair

How often have neighbor boys
mistaken fear for meanness?

As often as we adults I suspect

Turning our hoses on full blast
and feeling arrogantly vindicated
when our preemptive strike
is met with howl and hiss

It is a wonder the whole world
is not soaked to the bone

11:11

I used to hoard wishes

like a starving child hoards crumbs 

cast off as detritus by others

but precious nourishment to her

No one I knew put much stock

into pennies tossed in fountains

but I would wait and watch

the copper sink to the bottom

planted like a lotus seed 

beneath the gurgling waters

I was the only adult in the neighborhood

who harvested dandelions 

and blew with reckless abandon

(the casualty of an imperfect lawn

well worth the wind-scattered wishes)

A full-grown woman

who counted fallen eyelashes

as a precious treasure

and clocks blinking 11:11

as heralds of a Magic Time

birthday candles were serious business

not just some yearly photo-op

made more difficult as years increased

and lung capacity declined

Partygoers would teasingly ask

"What did you wish?"

I would smile and coyly respond

"If I tell it won't come true!"

Thinking it was a joke, they would laugh

not knowing I held a desperate hope in my heart

And in all of those years
I never dared speak the secret

that I am finally free to proclaim:

Every weed and smoldering candle

every eyelash and sunken penny

represented just One Wish

that came true 

the moment I met You

Neon Pink

There was a sweatshirt I wore
on my twelfth birthday
neon pink with white lips like kiss prints
splattered recklessly across the front
I have a picture of that day
when I put it on brand new and so cool
all the brighter for never having been washed
the color reflected the blush of youthful hope
onto my make-up free cheeks

I was all smiles as I looked forward
to a blindingly bright future
as John Taylor's wife
how proud he would be
to be married to the world's most famous
veterinarian/fashion designer
who couldn't make the tour with him
because she was too busy starring
in the film version of her miraculous life

The sunset tonight reminds me of that sweatshirt
the electric fuchsia speckled with clouds
like white lips kissing the sky
wrapping me in the cottoning warmth
of those long forgotten dreams
protecting me from the blue chill
of forty on the horizon
like the ocean swallowing the sun

The white lips whisper
there is time, there is still time
Project Runway is open to all ages
John Taylor has just joined Twitter
and neon pink is cool again

Impossible Things

I want to live an African Elephant life
A Himalayan Mountain life
A Giant Sequoia life
A life so Large you can't wrap your head
or your arms around it
A life that can't be grasped
even by two hands
I want to live a life so Tall
you need an oxygen tank to climb
or a ladder on top of a Giant crane
on top of a skyscraper to reach
I want to live an Empire State Building life
An Eiffel Tower life
I want to live so Big they can't fit me
in a box when I die
They'll have to intern me in a Legend
so I can ride into the sunset
on the back of Babe the Blue Ox
And when night falls
I'll take archery lessons from Orion himself
piercing the stars with my Mighty arrows

i want to live a hummingbird life
a wee green clover life
a spot on the wing of a lady bug life
a life so tiny you can put it under your tongue
and dissolve it until all of the molecules
flow through your body
a life that gets under your nails
that can be folded up and placed in the breast pocket
of a nice suit like a colorful hankie
i want to live an eyelash on the cheek life
a single pink petal life
an eskimo kiss life
a life so small that my greatest achievement
is a well bloomed rose bush
and when i die even a mint tin
will be too big for me
they'll have to put me on a leaf
so i can float down river like a newborn dragonfly
sun warming my wet wings
and when night falls
i'll take flight on a jasmine scented breeze
reflecting the stars in my ink drop eyes

I want to live a Both-And life not an either-or life
an inconceivable, improbable, unreasonable life
because the impractical dreams and impossible things
are the only ones worth Living (and dying) for