This is AMERICA

They crowded me, big men, brown men to each side, 

I offered my armrests, as I am but a small person in the middle seat.

Victor had seen dead bodies at the side of the road at age six

(Running from home to school in El Salvador) before escaping to 

AMERICA.

And EdGAR, (he says to accent the second syllable) headed North as well, to 

AMERICA.

Guatemala offered nothing and papa was dead.

Their bodies took up space and their words filled the cabin

With stories of escape and deliverance, the deep rumble of their

Trucks on American highways, the smell of the loads of recycled cardboard,

How the young truckers don't respect anymore, stealing gas and materials from 

Others.

Victor shared fantastic tales of Tribulation of the religious variety, 

EdGAR of tribulation of the difficulty of renewing his truck license in California.

This is 

AMERICA, 

Where anything is possible, anyone is possible, anywhere is possible

As long as you are present to see it, hear it, feel it.

this is AMERICA. 

Finding the correct tool

 I hadn't read the recipe, quickly perusing the required matériels 

To participate in the "cookie making", the event at the big house

Past the locked gates, situated along the winding, narrow road.

It was very dark.

The recipe surely included flour, butter and perhaps some eggs, but

Would the batter be too thick for the whisk, or too thin for the kneading

Bring both, she said, she, who had forgotten the details

(Written in German, yet!)

Imagining that we would share the KitchenAide mixer, the pink one

(That my husband had bought me for Valentine's Day),

And finding that everyone brought their own.

The hostess diligently instructed us, and I watched her, 

Deciding to do the mixing very differently, 

And of course, choosing to cut shapes in the dough, 

Completely differently, with animals shapes instead of stars,

Without the nuts, so I could get them done more quickly and 

Retreat to my small house, situated in a crowded neighborhood

Where anyone can go, where anyone can walk, where no one will 

Notice that you are not from here.

Old age and infirmity

Three down, one already down, chronically down.

Blood clots and vertigo, AFIB and Parkinson's

the Clan is down.

Older brother's screams fade to the steady hum of pumps,

Four days pinned to a bed unable to move his legs, a fake smile

shows up for a photo.  

(taken by his wife as she balances on her knee scooter)

Younger brother's foot drags on the ground, a contrast to his relative youth,

his exuberance, running in circles with his teenagers.

My world spins, a half-full garbage can placed at my side

In case.

Older sister was walking

Until she wasn't, her steady and reliable life

dancing to two sets of heartbeats, uncertain which way to go.

 Oh!  All our plans so perilously stacked, perilously and we did not even know it, how can we forget how

delicately we dance on this Earth, this beautiful Earth.  

Bird by Bird

bird by bird

word by word, first draft

worse by worser, confidence flies away.

bird by bird,

seed by seed, 

watching them drop to a squirrel

who will catch these words, 

bird by bird, who will gather them and reform them

word by word

into second draft, and third, line by line.

she said it's torture, but made it funny,

how many words by words, 

birds by birds did she shoot down with

the gun at her side, in that quiet countryside

before she said these words

bird by bird

word by word.

 

vertigo

 we are not meant to be in a spinning world,

having never noticed the fine structure of the gym floor,

i now notice that the speckles are circles of color.

and the ceiling lights, suspended above me are spinning

at an alarming rate, but the struts hold.

My stomach protests and I call out weakly,

without wanting to make a fuss and try to turn

towards the floor, to force it to stop spinning

My face is burning, my stomach wanting to retch

this is vertigo. 

one moment, thinking about how hard my workout will be, 

the next, knowing that there will be none.

the one moment, thinking about how to always stay busy in the beloved flow zone,

the next, knowing that it's not possible and that when the world

stops spinning, I will have to stop, too, 

and tolerate that state of "not doing"

There is no choice.

looking old age in the eye after a new haircut

we decided that it's a malaiase, that beautiful word that sounds like it 

means.

my brother and me, at 70, he looks it, and I try to hide my own age so I don't have to 

directly face the mirror which asks me what I want to do with my life

now

that I'm no longer leading the team, my mind doesn't solve deep problems

in space the way that it used to, I'm feeling old, my bones creak and my

knees buckle.

Malaise, the sense that the day does not hold so many exciting new things that 

I can't WAIT to open my eyes and start the day! 

I was never built this way, 

childhood photos show a face full of serious worry, there was no joy there

and yet

everyone says that I will LOVE retirement and congratulations, but 

why, when I loved doing what I did so well.

Retirement means that it's time to step aside and do something new, but I'm 

not sure what new will match that sense of focus and excitement at learning

that particular new thing.

What particular new thing will wake me up in the morning, all eager to 

start a new day?

 

It's time to rest

after billions of dollars, hoarse from shouting, after 

the sheer will power to move the "people" did not even nudge them,

no, not even decades of misogyny, or threats of mass deportations, no, 

not even our gaze into the hellish summer heats or swirling debris of

yet more powerful hurricanes, no, there is nothing to be done.

Let's rest then, next to a fuzzy friend, an innocent youngster, 

no more postcard parties, or fantasies that the message we believed in

meant ....anything.  It did not.

In any case,

the wealthy will do fine in an autocracy as long as the house is still standing.

I thought we were fighting for all of us, in fact, but no,

they will fight for themselves, I imagine, or maybe, no

maybe not, they will maybe fight each other?  In the darkness

when their neighbor is pulled from her bed, or will they celebrate

as she was not meant to be the "other", aren't there other "others".  

For now, I will rest, watch the snow fall outside the window,

only momentarily disturbed by the man pushing his cart 

overflowing with blankets, hoping for a better day

tomorrow.