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Posts Tagged ‘growing up’

Formative

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on March 3, 2026| 2 Comments »


 
 
I would sit in the circle,
gut flopping like a fish
while the fox walked around
to pat us each on the head.
Duck. Duck. Duck.
Bright fizz of adrenaline
frothing in the blood
as the hand came closer.
Duck. Duck.
Please pick me. Don’t pick me.
Half wanting to be chosen,
half wanting not,
because I was the child
who had to stew in the pot
for five more rounds
because I’d get caught.
Duck. Duck.
Not wanting to be chosen
’cause I knew I’d sit alone.
Oh, shame of the center.
Shame of being slow.
Please pick me. Don’t pick me.
Oh. I am not the goose.
Oh, longing to be chosen,
wanting the proof
that I could be a child
other children would choose.
 

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It Makes Me Want to Look Again, Again

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on June 7, 2025| 2 Comments »


 
 
It’s like living with the same painting
for years and then one day seeing in it
something I’ve never seen before,
that’s what it’s like tonight when we’re walking
along the river and I see my girl as someone new
emerging from the daughter I have known
her whole life. It is, perhaps, because the slant
of light is just right for such seeing—
the source of the shine coming not from the sun,
but directly from her, from within.

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Playing Family

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 9, 2020| Leave a Comment »

for Grace

I’m too grown up now to play family,

says the six-year-old girl. But I hear

in her voice that part of her

still loves the game.

I long to tell her that now,

at fifty, playing family is still

one of my favorites.

I’m less wild about the version

where I’m the mom telling the kid

no, they can’t get the toy they want.

But I like the game when I sit on the couch

and say to my son or daughter,

Hey, come snuggle in, and they do.

I like it when we stand around the kitchen counter

laughing at whatever we’re laughing at.

I like when we’re driving in the car

and I say, Hey, sweetie, how was your day?

Sometimes, I play dress up in my own clothes

and wear what a mother would wear.

I even make breakfasts and lunches

and hide the M&Ms.

And I laugh to hear my own voice say

what a mother might say:

Clean up your room, please.

Time for bed now. Now.

You have got to be kidding me.

I love you. Oh my, how you’ve grown.

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Return from Summer Camp

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on August 15, 2016| 1 Comment »

 

 

 

The boy who has been gone for a week

approaches his mother at the curb

 

outside the school. Did you have fun?

she asks, and he gives her a lopsided

 

smile that doesn’t even pretend to be cool.

His cheeks are sunburned and his hair

 

is sun drenched and his shoes are mismatched

and dusty. He is happy. Oh yes, mom, he says,

 

and he falls in her arms and she holds up

his tired weight. It is August and the leaves

 

have already begun to yellow on the hill.

He tells her of herons, how they flew at sunset,

 

their wings backlit and shining. Then he reaches

in his backpack to pull out a rock, a gray flint

 

in the shape of a heart. He slips it in her hand

and doesn’t move to leave her. They stand

 

on the curb long after all the other campers

have left with their families. All around them,

 

the scent of rain about to come, the sound

of men with their hammers building

 

something new.

 

 

 

 

 

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at seven

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on July 16, 2015| 1 Comment »

she likes to sashay

for the mirror—

already her eyes see

her self as if they belong

to someone else

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Tanka for Michelle

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on October 23, 2011| 1 Comment »

Dust it was, today
the road where once
we smudged each other with mud.
How little then we knew
of how messy things can be.

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