Mom puts the plate
in front of me
but I am too hungry
for biscuits
to see her
as anything
but the bringer of food
the washer
the dryer
the back of the house
whether she smiles
as she pours
the coffee or gravy
or turns to cry
I never see her
wipe her hands
hang the towels
exhale with a sigh
too much on her plate
till lunch
She begins quite simply
sipping her latte
turning back the cover
of the two dollar tabloid
revealing sadness unfolding
in the celebrity world.
It begins quite simply
the story it tells her
of love that was star studded true,
but it somehow goes wrong,
the fame blinding their eyes
to the reality life is to us all.
She simply states that her
dark eyes and recreated bust
are coldly divorcing
the handsome movie star stud
whom the rest of the country
is just wishing were coming
for comfort and cuddling arms.
Each page simply tells a reminder
that no matter your glamour,
your cosmopolitan flare,
or your houses, your boats,
no matter your Pepsodent smile,
things come to an end
as the pages are turned
as all delicious stories do.
Then quiet simply
the empty paper cup,
along with the couple,
is casually tossed in the trash.
Paper folds into triangle
upon triangle
that opens the flaps to tell
whether she likes someone
or that someone likes her
or if her favorite color is blue.
And after the ceremony
a slice of cake is kept
in a tiny cardboard box
under her pillow
in hopes of luring
a husband of her own.
While holding a string dangling
a sewing needle
is stuck in the end
of the pencil’s eraser
over her wrist
to circle or tell the angle
that indicates the birth
of a future boy or a girl.
When battling the cosmos
with the weapons on hand,
a girl’s got to do
what a girl’s got to do.
Row 3 Seat G
occupies a sleeper
exhausted or bored
with his travels.
His right black tennis shoe
is in the aisle
the other bent up
while his knee wedges
into the seat in front.
People passing by
on their way to the restroom
brush ticklish
the hairs on his leg.
With his eyes still shut
he reaches one hand down
to scratch while the other
hugs a pillow
he brought from home.
Another passenger
has bumped his leg
and annoyed,
he shifts to a new position.
The arm of his chair
digs into his side
and he rolls again
into his original pose.
Row 3 Seat G
occupies a sleeper.
Shhh….
disingenuous
daisies
dangerous
dark
debonair
dude
deliberately
deceived
dainty
demure
dateless
dame
desperation
denial
dab
damp
drop
discard
damn
debris
dense
depression
deduce
decanter
diary
diarrhea
If superman could set his eyes
on the baggage aboard this plane
he would start with the tapestry bag
of a woman reading the celebrity page.
While she reads of glamour
and fast lane lives,
her belonging reveal her story:
Lipstick and mascara,
a white lace slip and jewelry,
shoes and perfumed sachet,
all fitting someone who likes
glamour and glitz.
But then dig deeper
and read from a different page:
A styrofoam container
with bread and some butter
the frugal remains
of today’s meal
with tiny soap and shampoo
saved for her daughter.
It is the appropriate bag
of the two sided woman
with her head in the clouds
and her feet on the ground.
Exit opens, rotate handle
mechanical robots
point the way
to yellow raft slides
and one foot safe
on the ground.
I pray.
Sitting beside
the terminal
seasoned traveler
contentedly sipping juice
while lost in the space
of a good book.
I pray.
I in my tenseness
travel alone
watching the stewardess
for signs of nervousness
and rereading pamphlets
of airplane schematics.
I pray.
The aircraft continues
its endless headache hum
crowding out the chatter
of seated strangers
forced to fill four hours
of the cramped quartered quest
to the other side of the country.
And I bypass the juice
when offered to me
as I know the limitations
of the airplane lavatory
closet like claustrophobia
awaits with Barbie doll fixtures
and warning sign decorations.
The baby starts fussing
and mother shushing
the passengers turn their heads
to headphones or windows
and angry stares
when the solitude of lavatory
is now inviting,
but I’ve had no juice.
I’m five feet two
and smaller than most
yet my arms touch
the rests side to side,
but my foot sticks out
and must be pulled in
when the passengers pass
in the one foot aisle.
Breakfast arrives on a tray
no more than eight by ten
enclosing in plastic wrap
with fried potato cubes,
greasy sausage links,
a round biscuit formation,
and meat flavored
with a hint of ham
that spilled with an ooze
I’m trusting to be cheese.
Saving the sweet roll
to redeem the rest,
my stomach is fooled
and breakfast is measured
at ten thousand feet.
San Francisco Flight 37 left at 7:30 a.m.
with a miss-sortment of passengers
and disinterest in the stewardess’s eyes.
She flashed her professional smile
when the cue light went on
and welcomed all aboard.
Even you –
young inexperienced mother
with your screaming child.
Even you –
three fifty-something ladies
complaining already of leg room.
Even you –
with your crosswords and books
to absently fill your time on board.
Even you –
pillow takers from home
not content with a pocket sized one.
Even you –
with your nervous first flight eyes
scanning exits and floatation devices.
Even you –
chatty Kathy who must know
everyone’s name on board.
Even you –
giggly eight year old traveling alone
with your Barbies and markers staining.
Even you –
snoring already even though
we have not left the ground.
Please buckle your seatbelts.
We expect another uneventful flight.
The miss-sortment of passengers
didn’t even bother to look in her eyes
and Flight 37 took off to the skies.
When they were little
mean boys burnt ants
with a magnifying glass
while horrified girls screamed
and tattled to their moms.
Later the boys grew up
to challenge their manhood
with only a dollar
while swinging a hammer
and ringing a bell.
The years have tarnished
their cotton stuffed prizes
and ex-girlfriends
with spring-cleaning fever
can’t burn them fast enough.
Dense and overgrown
inaccessible
entangled and formidable
a thicket of an amalgamation
that must be brandished
with sharpness,
the jungle of your mind is impenetrable.
What does it take to get through to you?
When Nathaniel loved Katherine
their initials were carved
with a pocket knife
into a tree
to last forever.
Now Nate loved Kate
with their eternal love
posted on Facebook
until a keystroke
erased it in a second.
She was crying softly
hiding her face
behind her bangs.
So her mother tied a red curly ribbon
holding a mylar balloon
onto her wrist.
In the metallic reflection
she saw the distorted image
of herself.
And even at seven
she knew enough
to let it go.
But not before
she inhaled the helium
and laughed like a demented squirrel.
There are one hundred and nine
crumbling edged
faded pages
each with a recipe
she wrote in cursive
all tied with a maroon ribbon.
The recipes intrigued me with
long ago provocative titles:
shrimp wiggle,
snowball pudding,
floating island,
and sea foam.
Fried frog legs
or salmon croquettes
were served with oyster fritters
and desert might boast
a lemon sunshine cake.
With forgotten knowledge
of how to measure temperature
with the correct size
of wood to burn,
her stove created history.
I could imagine it took forever
for her to write down
the ingredients and directions
for how to recreate
her Norwegian home.
But at the flea market
I only paid five dollars
for this woman’s life.
Vanessa Cosmopolite,
was a newly emerged lady
who rebelled the cocoon of home
unable to settle
in one place for long,
and flit through life
too fast.
She was a wanderer
disguised like the faces
of other beautiful woman,
who were small like her
delicate and quiet
who especially like living
near flowery meadows
and mountain tops
gathering aster, cosmos,
thistle, and buttonbush
but flew
to the action
of San Francisco.
The night lights of the city
attracted her
as she stood by
the Painted Ladies.
They were tinted
in three or more colors
embellishing
their architectural details
and nested on the congested hill
in a row of Victorian and Edwardian
houses at 712-720 Steiner St.
bordering Alamo Square Park.
With the brightly orange sleeves
of her cropped sweater
she lifted both arms
simultaneously over her head
as she pulled her hair up in bands
creating knobbed-like antennae
the Asian look
the men now wanted
upon her head.
Her dress was short
silky and wispy black
billowing its symmetrical
pattern and shape
with an orange patterned slip
peeking out as the breeze
flipped it
like the underside
of a delicate wing.
At the end of her
taste sensored legs
long, bronzed and lean
tiny spiked heels help her land
and stay on the pavement,
her perch.
She had a nervous feeling
almost defenseless
flying that night
in the pit of her stomach,
the night she became
a Painted Lady.
She was identified by her prey,
those night lizards,
by the black and white purse
that she carried.
And the Painted Lady
was a pretty nymph
with tiny scales of makeup
coloring her eyelids
tinted in three or more colors
embellishing her natural details
but only a touch
so as not to diminish
the beauty
of her blue pupils
keeping you from seeing
the black markings
on her upper side,
in case you looked
too close.
She quickly gained a reputation
for being a renowned
world traveler
a pristine specimen
spotted and photographed
before taking off to her next
unknown destination.
Her species resided
only in warmer areas
migrated in spring
and sometimes again in autumn
from North Africa
and the Mediterranean
to Britain
in May and June
any offspring
produced there
but not eaten
by their mother
would die in the fall.
Naturally diurnal
she slowly
became nocturnal
active during the day
and sleeping
without rest
during the night.
And in the heat
she was butterfly cooked
camouflaged as meat
split between her legs
separated it into halves
that somehow remained
joined in the middle.
During that time,
her goal was to reproduce
money
and lay eggs of desire
so the cycle
can begin again
before her wings
could be ripped off
by another hunting man
with a net.
This hairy, black and yellow
caterpillar, her pimp,
used his strong jaws
to munch through money
like paper
eating constantly
and growing quickly
while she barely ate,
and her skin grew tighter
as she fed on thistles
while the adults around her
gorged what was meant for her.
Flying low
on energy
and dignity
she desperately looked
for a safe place to rest
and find time for
a needed metamorphosis.
She knew she needed
to shed her tight covering,
emerging
with new skin underneath.
They say she fought back
four times
before the silken threads
of a discolored tie
came out from just below
his swearing mouth
shouting obscenities
as he hung her in his lair.
He split her skin open,
from head to abdomen,
revealing a shiny red liquid
that pooled on the floor
and dried too dark
for white prayers
to reform her
as she hung from the light
of a cheap hotel room
where the butterflies
painted on
the hideous wallpaper
screamed.
But in another world she emerges
from her chrysalis,
her wings soft and crumpled.
So tired she rests,
and then
slowly
unfolds
her wings to dry.
Soon she will be ready
to float into the light
because butterflies need
the sun to fly.
To fly.
I saw it first
out of the corner
of my right eye
as it flew
effortlessly gliding
in an arch
surrounding my head
and landing on
my left wrist.
It was only about
an inch and a half long
rectangular in shape
made of some kind
of metal
slippery and dark
like polished hematite.
It clamped
against my skin
with a powerful suction
and it took great force
on my part
to pull it off
and throw it,
but I did.
As it flew
in a strenuous arch
it made a noise,
soft at first
then loud and shrill,
like the fire alarm
at school.
Instantly my wrist
began to swell
and two impressions
remained
one, an indented square
the other, three little pin pricks
where blood
was now forming.
Aliens.
I knew it.
They had tried to probe me
like all the rest.
But I was too quick for them.
I had seen it coming.
I knew I should
get some ice
or suck on it myself
in case of poison,
but all I did was run.
My feet were flying
so rapidly that both feet
felt momentarily
off the ground
with each step
as I ran through hallways
blocking up with people
standing in line
for breakfast.
They wouldn’t let me through
while they talked
of muffins and cereal
and toast.
What?
Are they kidding?
Who cares about pancakes,
waffles and eggs?
Could they see
the danger
we were all in?
Shouting in my frustration,
I woke up.
But even though, as the teacher,
I remind my students all the time
that they can’t end their stories
with it all just a dream,
it was.
It just feels a little odd
strapping a watch on
to my left wrist
as I grab a quick breakfast
and run to school.