They say there’s no such thing as magic.
That everything can be explained
By college textbooks
And nature documentaries
But
What do you call the swell
Of my heart when the
Sun peeks over the hills
Blanketed in dew?
Is there a scientific explanation
For how wide my eyes are
After three hours in the Met?
Can you explain
What runs through my mind
When I dive headfirst
Into water so clear and cold
That it erases my mind?
Tell me that you don’t believe in magic then.
Title inspired by Tom Robbins’ novel “Even Cowgirls Get The Blues”
Even space cowgirls get the blues
It’s lonely uniting the cosmos,
Lassoing aliens,
Being wild.
But don’t fall in love with a space cowgirl
She’ll only break your heart
With a tip of her hat
And the twinkle of stars between her teeth
She’s gone.
She’s not made for your life,
Needs space to
Fling herself off the edge
Of the world and see where
She goes.
Against the setting sun, cacti framed by flames
Beside hibiscus blooms open wide, giving their pollen away to the hummingbirds
Chickens squawking in yards filled with patchy grass and remnants of children’s toys
Down the hill, orange and brown specks that could be houses but
Easily look like brushstrokes, a painting
For sale at the art gallery in Alajuela
Grandparents, but not ours, tell us stories in Spanish
Help us understand by talking slowly and motioning with wrinkled hands
In the morning, a trip to the store on the corner where the road forks
Just us kids, sharing candy and holding up funny hats, giggling through aisles
Kicking the soccer ball that sprays up dew against our shins, avoiding the ants that sting ankles
Local mothers in work boots, faster than the varsity boys
Mango juice dripping down our chins, sickly sweet against our tongues
Napkins packed by host parents spread the stickiness
Over fingers and sunburnt faces, only to be washed off at the spigot in between water fights
Paint dries in the sun on the walls of the community center, sparkling green
Quiet is relative; here it means the constant sound of water rushing and someone singing
Rice and beans, fried plantains and and palm hearts fill our bellies as
Sunshine dries the mud into tiny canyons in the dirt road
That borders the rainforest, fends off vines that creep and monkeys that wake the town
Under the dense canopy, the air is heavy and the breeze sounds like a whisper
Vanilla and cacao, tasting bitter pulp and holding the seed between teeth
Wild dogs splash in waterfalls, perking up at the names they’ve been given
Xenia, a parting gift, a blood red flower woven into cloth, a physical reminder
Years later, will I remember this? Memories too magical to fade away
Zig-zagging, the bus pulls away and I look back, just for a second, before I turn back around
In third grade we looked at pictures of snowflakes,
Their silvery outlines stark against black
Every year we see the pictures
Until we don’t
We’re too old to experience magic, I suppose
And much too old to believe in it
There is nothing more delicate than snowflakes
And nothing stronger than our skin
Worn now like leather,
Faded and spotted by the same sun that melts
Snowflakes
The only magic that we still believe in
But snowflakes don’t fall anymore
Another instance of magic fading away
Like memories that we don’t revisit
The same sun that melted the snowflakes then
Withers the grass now
And the snow doesn’t fall, but we’re still here
Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From”
I am from my red tricycle
From buttered peas and Norah Jones on the radio.
I am from the blood red sumac in my backyard
(Unlearned lessons of sticky hands)
I am from the railing of the stage that my dad made me;
Strong and sturdy, just like him.
I am from ravioli and eye drops,
From Pam and Norma.
I’m from bright yellow daffodils
And joyful shrieking
From emerald gardening gloves dripping with dirt.
I’m from sweet potato pies
With a side of Amen
And wrinkled hands held tight.
I’m from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and rocking horses,
Gauze butterflies and breakfast for dinner.
From stickers stuck to the roof of our Eurovan
To Webster the frog in his steamy glass case.
The plastic-wrapped scrapbooks
Under my grandpa’s loft:
Memories of Old Maid games and birthday cakes
With rainbow sprinkles.
I am from a vegetable soup family;
Thrown together and stirred and warm-
Just like we should be.
A girl and her father walk through the Met looking at ancient art while watching kids sledding through the window.
An older couple looks at two statues kissing passionately and the man says, “that’s us tonight.” His wife laughs and holds him tighter.
A woman in a colorful sweater sits with a group of kids in front of a George Seurat painting and teaches them how to sketch. She speaks to them in fluent Polish.
A little girl cries while riding her scooter through the One World Trade Center at midnight.
Two strangers bond over their shared love of Jay Z and dancing in the subway.
June 29th
With the fireworks came the news
You weren’t coming.
Not today,
not ever.
I traded picnics and glow sticks
For a black dress and brand-new waterproof mascara.
Shaking sweaty hands
Of people I don’t know.
Swallowing my tears with
Flavorless lemonade.
With the heart of a drum,
The stomach of a butterfly house,
I realize
You’ve left.
And with you, a part of me.
