Trusting Observations (Poems from Spring)

I Finally See Her, Unknown Name

 Darkest skin, voice thick

With the sound of another nation

She speaks of cancer the enemy,

Which had no distinction of race

When it took her husband and

Left her sons lonely. Her anguish displays

With a wetted cheek in front of me. 

She encourages, and I see power

As she speaks to the women with

Authoritative firmness

 A tested trust pours

Out with her words of a God that

Sustained her through death.

I realize I never truly saw her

Never let my observations run deeper

Than her beautiful skin and voice.

Walked by after church with a smile and wave

Not remembering her name, but

Thinking that fine, until the moment

When I first hear her and wish I remembered.

Vocabulary Enlightenment

 Not more better, just better

Being a good friend to someone

And for someone are different

How? Explaining is hard

You cannot cook good

But you can cook well

Even if you might

Have a good recipe

You can like someone

Or be like someone

Separate thoughts

Changed by preposition

The strongest words

Are simple and precise

Such as the powerful

Uncomplicated “I love you”

English is crazy?

You may be right

Letter From Dominican

 The one inspired in country remote

Is tucked beneath the pages of my journal

I smile when I see the simple blue lines on

A half sheet of white paper

Filled with his well-ordered script

That was the one where his meaning was lost

Words like “love” and “sister” intertwined

His imperfect English deciphered and now

We jest with the well-read note taken out to play

Now that we know

We were just starting that time-old revelation

Of the possibility of like, and of love

Nothing declared when he left on a trip of twelve days.

Doubts accumulated as time stacked silence.

He forgot me, he doesn’t care, my insecurity built

Excuses for the quiet that came across the water.

An inaccurate homebound date

Made me think that my wondering

And missing was not shared.

I was a solitary admirer unsure.

Trust

My friend advises, and I halts my anxiety

 As she claims, “That boy is going to contact

You as soon as he arrives on U.S. soil.”

I allow the words to wash my eyes to

Sleep the night before he comes back.

From Puerto Rico a text arrives and

Seconds erase days of waiting wonder.

No declarations of love, or of like, but

The simple words “I miss you”

Cause my heart to hurry to hope.

The day after, he rips the page containing

Sermon notes and my letter in half. He

Apologizes for its presentation, but as

I take the note from his hands, I assure

Him that I only care to know I was in his thoughts.

My Kids Not My Own

I sit down carefully

Balancing the newborn babe

Not my own, to sleep.

Her siblings are mine.

I did not birth the three.

Nor have I acquired

Them as such by any

Other means than by

Being their nanny.

That time ended many months ago

And I wonder if I will ever

Know the one in my arms

Though I had hoped and prayed

For her arrival with the protectiveness

Of one who saw the pain of

Lost babies in my employer’s womb.

The afternoon rays flow from the window

And I shield her pink face from

The glow. “My, she looks like Lucy,”

I think in a motherly way, as I

Notice the cheekbones and eyes

That mirror my former youngest charge.

My last day as help has come.

Even tonight on a plane is a girl

Who will fly in, and take

Lodging in my former domain.

My oldest girl Stella, in a

Concerned voice tells me

I should be their nanny

Again. And if I don’t, I won’t

Know her baby sister Elise.

The one I hold in my arms.

Her observations cut down

Into a place I was not aware of.

I inwardly sigh and explain

Another nanny will soon take

My place, but I secretly

Hope she never does.

Unexpected Not Surmised

 Expected: White boy curly hair loud.

Unforeseen: Honduran, quiet, steady.

More romantic than I? Yes, that

Is certainly a wonder.

“I’m going to marry you Hillary Walker,”

He tells me and I laugh at his cockiness

And candor. I challenge

His confidence with eyebrows raised,

But his gaze doesn’t waver.

I want to trust the assurance he has

Of our ability to weave language and culture,

But the time is not yet here when I reveal

To him my hope that what he says will happen.

At time may come when my doubts are cleared

If the months turn into a year, and a year turns into a wedding.

Just a Trip

 Across the wooden worn café table

A “no” hangs on his lips but doesn’t emerge.

I want to keep the word in, to keep him from denying me.

He longs to say yes, as much as I want him to, but he stops.

Tears that I hate form underneath my lids.

Manipulation is not my game, but I wish it were.

Must I give up control again, and again, and again?

It is just a trip, but my sister and I have made it into a pilgrimage

I want him to journey on. To do what he said he would do,

When he claimed he would take me to the moon.

I do not require that distance, but do seek from him

Some form of adventure across the miles.

Our wills diverge, and the word does not fall

From his lips. But I know, to maintain

A future with the man across the table,

I must establish a place of safety.

A secure ground for him to say “no.”

Mouths Closed Eyes Open

 A quiet person’s greatest gift

Can be the gentle gift of observation

When lack of spoken words propels one

Into the place of uncertainty

Then realize that the time stacked

With silence gives the ability

To see deeper that those whose

Mouths never stop moving.

 A Barrier of Words

 I sit on a well-worn cream couch

In the living area of his family’s house.

His sister’s weekly rearrangement of furniture

Causes me laughter every time I step inside.

It is here that the family surrounds me

Every look, gesture, and facial expression now become

An intense study as I grapple with understanding

The elusive language that circulates around me.

Sometimes we banter, mixing English

With Spanish, and I enjoy the challenge

Of piecing movements with words to

Disclose the mystery that is their conversation.

At these times I am confident that one day

I too will participate with the

Vigor and knowledge that they have attained

Of a mother tongue not their own.

Other times I remain an unrecognized

Object in the room. Another piece of the

Furniture rearranged they forget me

And my inability to understand.

My limited knowledge fails

And the exchange becomes like a

Thousand-piece puzzle in front of me

With only ten pieces given to my hand.

Before I build my frustration to

An unreachable height, a solid hand

Surrounds my own I look into the face

That always remembers me. 

He kindly reminds them of my presence.

I am no longer an object, but a person accepted

They step into my natural and their unnatural,

And I hope that someday I can do the same for them.