my father’s words,
a soft thunder,
my mother calls my name,
calls my name.
First Day of School for the Teacher
For Cheryl
Twenty-first century business suit with
eyelet white blouse—
like the red-plaid dress & camel-hair
coat you couldn’t wait to wear
back in third grade. The marble notebook you
carried close to your heart. Yellow sharpened
pencils.
Mother’s apron,
the bread box, turkey sandwiches wrapped
in waxed paper. Knee highs, penny loafers. School
days—
We are still there. Blue sky
wider.
San Diego Afternoon
Mission Bay sea lions
somersault over manmade barge—
school’s out.
The Contest
His name was Joe—
tall, with curly light brown hair
like my French poodle, Rollo.
He was as cute as the football
captain my younger sister dated,
smarter than my older sister’s
college boyfriend.
On Saturdays, we would meet
at the Great Falls just where
the river makes a grand entrance,
creates a brash wall of water.
Cronin’s Oak Tree—
two o’clock sharp at Overlook Park,
shared Marlboros like in
Steve McQueen movies—
with every smoke ring, I would flip
my hair back Natalie Wood style.
Dressed in his black bomber jacket
with the red letters, Satan,
stitched across the back,
Joe wore skinny jeans before
they were called skinny jeans.
My dear mother tried
to lure me from this man—
I was the cat and she waved
the wand with bird feathers;
took me shopping,
bought me an angora sweater,
silk stockings and garters,
an organza dress with crinoline,
patent shoes, a chenille beret.
But listen, finally she said, “I forbid you
to see this boy.” So we set a time to meet again,
planned to dance at Central High’s
First Annual Chubby Checker “Let’s Twist Again
Like We Did Last Summer Contest.”
My white chiffon dress, red embroidered hem
flared like the trunk on our front yard maple.
We did the twist for hours,
sweating like two unpeeled apples,
our feet sliding, our shoulders and arms
swinging back and forth,
the music loud like the noise of the falls,
my curly long hair out of control.
Little Women
Madame Alexander Dolls displayed in the gleaming
glass windows of Holder’s Variety Store. Sisters walk
me to the shop from home to rummage through
blue-floral boxes. Unfolding layers of tissue, we
marvel at dolls & miniature wardrobes of clothes.
Cissy Doll with chestnut hair and cream-rose complexion,
adorned in her coral chiffon hat framed in tulle
roseate trim, the moiré knee-length dress with three
quarter sleeves. On the dressing table, her soft silkaline
fabric brushes my wrists. The ballerina flared A-line
enhances her unblemished figure. That wide-eyed belle,
brilliant eyes with curvy lashes, lids that close and open.
I try on my doll’s hat; hold up her dress to the mirror.
Like the magnolia, her silence awakens
a wide sky, a cloud of being. Little women—
heritage creatures of eternity, flawless
porcelain faces, permanent rouge and
chignoned hair, starry eyes, ageless
pouting lips. Perfect. World without end like etched
scenes on an urn: hope & truth & grace in perpetuum.
Wounded Angel
—after Hugo Simberg’s The Wounded Angel, 1902, oil painting
There are good angels and bad ones. Some dazzle, others bleed
mischief
