Choreography

When I was a little girl, I took dance classes,
Because I was going to be a star,
A triple threat,
I was going to dazzle.

So I twirled through that room full of mirrors, my mistakes on a thousand surfaces.
A muscular woman in a leotard, telling me to turn faster, keep my head up, make it sharper.
I was always a few steps behind
I was lifting the left leg when they were on the right,
Stepping forward when all the other girls were on their way back.
My limbs got tangled, and I would fall, over and over again.

I was clumsy and messy,
My hair never stayed in a proper ballet bun, high and tight.
My costumes pinched, all that suffocating sparkle.
When a girl in my class complained,
An older dancer said to her
They aren't supposed to be comfortable. They are supposed to be beautiful.
And isn't that what we were supposed to be? Beautiful, if not comfortable?

I felt like I was neither.
I was just a kid with a terrified grin, trying to remember the steps.

Now I dance in yoga pants and a tank top
My hair in a simple pony tail.

I make my own choreography,
And sometimes,
I fall,
because there is a marvelousness in the unexpected

I don't plan ahead.
I make music with my body
hands pounding, feet thumping.
I don't think out the next step,
don;t make it all fit in eight counts,  or even sixteen.

Now when I turn I make sure it isn't sharp,
because the world is full of watercolor streak softness

I dance a little differently now
But I still dance.
I dance comfortably
And beautifully too.
I unfurl like a flag,
Unfold like a crisp letter.
And I bloom.

Embers Part Two

Embers Part Two 

Tina  and Lyla Ashby were enjoying the pool and each other. Mid-june, when the air itself is full of promise.

It was a beautiful day, bright and optimistic.

Tina was watching her little girl play in their pool, the sun  glinting off her tight curls, splashing , pretending she was a mermaid, and she smiled to herself.  She liked looking at Lyla when she didn’t know she could be seen, getting to look into her world. And she was so heart-breakingly beautiful, her daughter, her features so unusual. Skin the color of copper, hair the exact shade of rich red clay in the earth. Eyes like a tiger’s, a deep gold. When they first brought her home, Tina’s father looked at her and said it looked like  they’d rolled her in cinnamon. He’d called her that ever since, his little cinnamon bun. She loved him unconditionally and fiercely, the way only grandparents can be loved.

Tina sometimes felt that Lyla was more lovely a girl than she and Peter could ever have created on their own, by the force of their collective genetics. She seemed beyond that, more than the sum of her parts. Tina had so often wondered who it was who made her this child and where they came from. Whose DNA coiled like a secret in Lyla’s cells? Who wrote the complex book of instructions that built her daughter, this one-of-a-kind masterpiece? It was like owning a beautiful  painting  with no signature.  It pained her deeply.

But  then, Lyla would say “melk” instead of “milk” just like Pete. Or she would  crawl into Tina’s lap and settle into the soft nook of her shoulder, the one that seemed built for her. And in those moments,  Lyla was theirs entirely. In those moments, Tina just looked at the painting; she didn’t search for a name hidden in the corner. In those moments, she didn’t need to know.

“Momma, can I have some lemonade?”

Lyla, dripping, looked up at her.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

She grabbed a towel off of the chaise lounge by the pool and bundled Lyla up in it. She  filled her a plastic cup from the pitcher on the table and when it dribbled  on her chin, she wiped it for her.

She was so distracted by this task that she didn’t even notice the red mark on her daughter’s left hand.  It was so small, after all. But that night, after Pete got home from work, he decided that he would bathe Lyla.  Have some quality time. She could make him cappuccinos out of the bubbles and serve them to him in the blue sippy cup Tina left in the bathroom for her to play with, tell him stories.  They could be together.  Lyla was still young enough that her naked body was an innocent thing, and he wasn;t uncomfortable with it yet. She was barely more than a baby.

She was laughing at the soapy beard he had put on her chin, making faces. He made some back. Added a tower of bubbles to her head as he shampooed it. It was such an average night. So comfortable.

He made a monkey face and wiggled his fingers at her. She imitated him, and that’s when he saw it. In the center of her palm, a burn.  It was so oddly shaped he did a double take—the white, irritated skin that must have been burned formed a perfect triangle.

“Honey, did you touch something hot? Does that hurt?”

Lyla looked at him with a complete lack of recognition.

“What, daddy?”

“That,on your hand.” He pointed.

“Oh! No. That’s my  superhero arrow.”

“Where did it come from? Your superhero arrow?”

He imagined some creep burning his daughter’s soft flesh and he felt angry, so very angry. How could Tina and he not have seen it? How long had it been there?

“It just came. I was at school sitting with Gracie and Ms. Leonard gave us popsicles for a special treat because it was the last day, and I had strawberry and Gracie had green, and it was so fun, but then I Joey pushed me  and I cried.”  That was just the day before, he thought with relief.

“But where did the superhero arrow come from?”

“I said, Daddy. I was sitting with Gracie. It was the best day ever until Joey pushed me. But before that it ws awesome. I was so happy.  I felt super happy so I got a superhero arrow. “

He sighed, perplexed.

“Did it hurt?”

“No. Not like when Joey pushed me. That hurt. We were playing tag and he pushed me because he’s mean.”

“That is mean. What did it feel like when you got it?”

“It was like when you sit by the fireplace, super warm and good. Daddy, I’m cold. Can you dry me off now please?”

He nodded, picked her up in her hooded ducky towel. Drained the tub and rubbed the towel down Lyla’s arms and in her hair, all without saying a word.

 Probably, she had touched the stove and didn’t remember, or didn’t know that’s where the mark came from. That seemed far-fetched, but Lyla had no other explanation. He tried to forget it, and Tina told him not to worry about it, it would probably go away in a day or two.  But when he tucked Lyla in and turned off the light, her hand lay open on the coverlet, and he could have sworn the triangle glowed. 

Embers

A sneak peek at a short story in the works! 

Enjoy! 

Embers

The fireman who found her was young, inexperienced, a little bit afraid. His uniform was slightly too large, and he always followed the rules.  He was determined and earnest. He was the kind of young man that mothers say is a sweet boy and fathers say is a good kid.

In short, he was unprepared for what faced him.

It was an old house, rotting, ugly, dark. Falling in on itself. They were going to tear it down. The fire was a blessing, in a way.

A big yard, filled with tall weedy grasses, dry and wild. A tinderbox.

They didn’t even bother to wonder what started it—a kid’s dropped cigarette, a spark from someone’s barbecue a few houses down. What did it matter?

No one lived there anyway.

Abandoned for years, that’s what everyone said. Hadn’t seen anyone come in or out for as long as they could remember.

So it was meant to be easy—they weren’t trying to save anyone, weren’t trying to protect anything. Just spray it down, keep it from spreading down the street. Contain it.

Contain the beast, the licking orange flames. That’s all. Not vanquish, not defeat. Only contain.

They sent a few guys in once it wasn’t raging to see if there was anything still needing to be dealt with—no missed spots, no chance of a reignited fire.

And that’s when he saw her.

A child. Naked and tiny and screaming.  He could barely hear her over the flames, the sound of the house dying. But he saw her, and he ran towards her as fast as he could.

There was no blanket near her, no clothes, no bottle, nothing.

No clues to where she came from, or why she was here, in a house that no one cared about anymore.

Naked and tiny and screaming.  Eyes screwed shut with the effort of it.

A newborn, no more than a few hours old. So small and red and very very alive.  He picked her up, as gently as if she were a fragile ornament that he might break.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her eyes were an amber color he had never seen before, and they were beautiful. He looked back. His heart skipped a beat. He suddenly felt painfully warm, and he reflexively shook his fire-retardant coat, certain he was burning.

He remembered himself then, remembered that they were in a building that was about to collapse. He wrapped the baby in his jacket, ran outside, performed his job. And their miracle, their magic amber moment, it was over.

 The young fireman never saw her again after that day, but he remembered those eyes, the look she gave him the day she began. 

Wild Girls

It is good to be wild girls

Wild girls swimming in the rain,

Naked legs, wet and white
We watch the heavens open, and we laugh, and we scream, and we enjoy it

We are so small, one note in a strange and perfect symphony

The world is raw and fresh, and we are too

The cold slap of water against our skin

Passionate like kisses

It isn't gentle, it isn't soft

It is loud and chaotic and alive

It is alive,

On this rainy Sunday afternoon,

The water is alive.

It is singing,

And we came to hear it.

It seeps into us, these young humans,

Made strong by their boldness

These worshipers at its altar

Beautiful, exhilarated, joyous

Yes,

It is good to be wild girls. 

Life of the Party

“Smile!”

Smile for me, smile for me they say.

So I smile,

Eyes bright, cheeks red,

And then I begin to dance,

And my feet are tapping on  the ground,

Sliding and clicking,

And my skirt is swinging,

And I smile.

I am wearing pearls and they are cold and grand against my throat.

My lips are painted red with a hint of orange in it, the color of a sunset.

I am laughing, and when I laugh it sounds like glasses chinking,

Like sparkling people, like someone drinking champagne.

Everyone thinks I am funny tonight,

Everyone thinks I am beautiful.

Everyone thinks I am lovely tonight,

Everyone thinks I am darling.

So I smile,

And my sunset lips curl towards my eyes with black curves of eyeliner like butterfly wings,

Toward my round cheeks brushed dusty rose.

I smile and they smile with me,

The assembled, the ones who love me so.

In the morning,

My feet are swollen and aching, my hair mussed, butterfly wings turned to dirty smudges,

And I smile.

Rooted

An ode to friendship and one friend in particular. Thank you, Hannah, for holding me up when I was sure I would fall. Love you to the moon and back.

Rooted

Her hair is soft and silken and thin, like a child's.
She has green eyes that have storms in them, and I can tell when one is coming.
She laughs easily and infectiously and  often
Her handwriting makes me feel nostalgic.

In photos, she often doesn't smile,
Afraid you'll see her braces, like a dirty secret.
It makes her look serious, intense, ethereal.

When she was a little girl,
she washed her snoopy doll until he was waterlogged and limp.
She loved him ragged.

She has never liked Christmas
But hung the first ornament on my tree,
Because she was trying.

Sometimes, when I am tired and worn thin with living,
I will lay my head in her lap,
And she'll stroke my hair,
Slow and steady strokes.

She only owns one pair of jeans,
But two pairs of harem pants.
She doesn't wear much makeup,
And her eyeshadow is cracked and dry,
Wistful and forgotten.

I have seen her angry and I have seen her frightened,
But neither one very often.
Once, she made us all hang bits of paper on a tree in the school quad,
wishes written on them with pens she passed around the lunch table.

She wanted them to hang there, as reminders,
And she wanted them to grow.
That was months ago,
But the wish tree is still there,
Surviving the weather,
Humbly holding our dreams,
Rooting us to a bright and shining future.

My Heart Sits

I have been ill, so that's why the post is late this week--but this is an older poem I wanted to share. Let me know what y'all think! 

My Heart Sits

I am going to tell you a secret, that really isn’t a secret at all.

Are you listening?

Alright.

The truth is, my heart likes to wander, and

sometimes she  sits, tucked away.

If you look hard, you can see her.

My heart sits on the windowsill, wishing she could fly

My heart sits in the ocean, rolling in the waves.

My heart sits in the pages of a book, riding on the words, lost and found again.

My heart sits in the Redwood trees, listening to their whispers.

My heart sits in the steam from a cup of tea, a showerhead, where she is thick and close.

My heart sits in the sunlight, telling me to dance.

My heart sits in the alchemy of learning, the realization, the firework.

My heart sits in the heavy green hills, wrapping herself around the valleys, the lagoons, the ancient knowledge that they guard.

My heart sits in laughter, jumping  off of each  expectant syllable.

My heart sits in  long glances, suspended on the bridge between two pairs of eyes.

My heart sits in old photographs, reminding me.

 My heart sits in sweet, pungent strawberries, bursting on my tongue.

My heart sits the candles, burning in their flame.  

She sits in the California night, in the silken shimmer of a party dress; she sits in old pajamas, in favorite movie popcorn bowls.

She sits in the flowers on the countertop, the smells of meals soon ready.

  She sits in the innocent labors of a bright-eyed child,

 And she sits in the nostalgia and the dreams of the girl that child became.

My heart likes to wander, but she also likes to come home.

My heart sits in this poem.