A Birthday
When I tell mom I love her, she says, "I love you more."
I say, "No way," but I know better because when my son was born I discovered she was right.
Now when my children say, "No Way, " I look at them the way my mom still looks at me, with that bit of weariness around the eyes that says, You have no idea.
My son turned 10 yesterday, but I remember it all as if it were yesterday.
Tunneling through the valley
with the sway and a clack, clack
a rock-a-bye for my submerged Peanut
also dreaming of trains.
Zigzags of cinderblock gray burst open
with light and color of backyards along the track.
The intimacy of a clothesline, while shouldering a stranger
with the rhythm of the sway
and the beat of my heart soothes the one close to me,
I've yet to meet, while I nod along with the clack, clack.
The first leg of our journey is a peaceful one,
displaying the signs of life revealed to us along the way.
Then
cast through the air, flung back to the desert,
I'm the only one not singing Viva Las Vegas.
Patchworks of growth below become dusty, revealing less signs of life.
"No, thanks" to the fourth offer of a drink. "I'm pregnant," works on the fifth.
Viva Las Vegas, your birthplace,
but don't worry, Peanut, we won't stay long.
You can take the Valley Girl out of the valley,
but never, like totally,
remove the valley from the girl.
Today I celebrate the both of us... the three of us... the four of us... the six of us...
all of us.
I say, "No way," but I know better because when my son was born I discovered she was right.
Now when my children say, "No Way, " I look at them the way my mom still looks at me, with that bit of weariness around the eyes that says, You have no idea.
My son turned 10 yesterday, but I remember it all as if it were yesterday.
Tunneling through the valley
with the sway and a clack, clack
a rock-a-bye for my submerged Peanut
also dreaming of trains.
Zigzags of cinderblock gray burst open
with light and color of backyards along the track.
The intimacy of a clothesline, while shouldering a stranger
with the rhythm of the sway
and the beat of my heart soothes the one close to me,
I've yet to meet, while I nod along with the clack, clack.
The first leg of our journey is a peaceful one,
displaying the signs of life revealed to us along the way.
Then
cast through the air, flung back to the desert,
I'm the only one not singing Viva Las Vegas.
Patchworks of growth below become dusty, revealing less signs of life.
"No, thanks" to the fourth offer of a drink. "I'm pregnant," works on the fifth.
Viva Las Vegas, your birthplace,
but don't worry, Peanut, we won't stay long.
You can take the Valley Girl out of the valley,
but never, like totally,
remove the valley from the girl.
Today I celebrate the both of us... the three of us... the four of us... the six of us...
all of us.