A Bittersweet Summer
Sitting on the wings
of a six-hour trans continental flight,
I arrive unexpectedly
at the corridor of my childhood
when I enter the tunnel
of the Portuguese countryside.
Dusting memories from my tickling feet,
I assess the familiar. Faceless eyes
fly like the Bee-eater—migrant beauty
with sounds of cruelty. The odor filling
my insides blossoms questions old as oak.
I search for clues
in cages with red-tiles where a dog
with polka dots, like the one I wore
on my fifth birthday, told stories
of cinnamon and vinegar with its saliva.
The murmur of hanging linens
with paunches like stuffed grape leaves,
awaited the shadow to stop
the spitting of the sun. The flowers
nourished with honey so the wind
carrying water didn't bite it like a snake.
Smelling the care of my baby
teeth that was once buried
in barren grounds, so trees grew
without hearing any voices
when the foxes were around.
I remember, first vaguely,
then distinctly with every step –
my mother flying clothes like a kite,
so I could learn to dream high.
My father telling bedtime stories
of shoreless love when I barely reached
his hips. But my neighbor, a boy my age
with torn shorts and shirt with cigarette
holes, wore impressions of burnt leather
every night crying on the swing.
Ash cloud and smoke billowing from apparently near the Eyjafjalla glacier
near Reykjavik last April 14, suspending flights in many European airports.
(from a series of photos released to travel agencies,
courtesy of Belle Sayson, Pan-Malaya Travel)
Finding Perspective
As the volcanic ash scattered dust
over my plans baked four months ago,
I stared at the Beara Peninsula with ripples
of hope, tea leaves in a clairvoyant’s cup,
to unfold answers I wanted to see.
Over the noise of confusion and tears
of flight cancellations, homeless
were planes, patience oozed from the navels
of people and headed for the wings,
hoping the lethargy of bees would end.
Bad news spread like cancer. My face grew
black fungus with mouth and teeth
of disappointment, my husband’s birthday
I would miss. The trip to Ireland was a gift for him
once the ink of writing had dried under my fingernails.
Days passed, the news channels delivered bitter
sounds in my ears. I sat in the chair of meals
with flowers of uncertainty hovering like nimbus
clouds at my residency. Calmly, a fellow writer said,
“Dates don’t matter. You both are alive. That’s life’s gift.”
Twenty five years ago, death found this kind soul’s
husband on the streets of a fateful Christmas eve
when he was about my age and her eyelids still carried
love for their two young boys boasting milk teeth.
I felt a throbbing as her syllables of loss paved a new path.
Surrounded by new rivers of perspective, I don’t feel
abandoned. My peers gave me a room behind brick walls
and their hearts. I still don’t know how or when skies
will carry me, but it assures me to know I have a home.
I wonder if this upcoming voyage was not intended for me.
As the volcanic ash scattered dust
over my plans baked four months ago,
I stared at the Beara Peninsula with ripples
of hope, tea leaves in a clairvoyant’s cup,
to unfold answers I wanted to see.
Over the noise of confusion and tears
of flight cancellations, homeless
were planes, patience oozed from the navels
of people and headed for the wings,
hoping the lethargy of bees would end.
Bad news spread like cancer. My face grew
black fungus with mouth and teeth
of disappointment, my husband’s birthday
I would miss. The trip to Ireland was a gift for him
once the ink of writing had dried under my fingernails.
Days passed, the news channels delivered bitter
sounds in my ears. I sat in the chair of meals
with flowers of uncertainty hovering like nimbus
clouds at my residency. Calmly, a fellow writer said,
“Dates don’t matter. You both are alive. That’s life’s gift.”
Twenty five years ago, death found this kind soul’s
husband on the streets of a fateful Christmas eve
when he was about my age and her eyelids still carried
love for their two young boys boasting milk teeth.
I felt a throbbing as her syllables of loss paved a new path.
Surrounded by new rivers of perspective, I don’t feel
abandoned. My peers gave me a room behind brick walls
and their hearts. I still don’t know how or when skies
will carry me, but it assures me to know I have a home.
I wonder if this upcoming voyage was not intended for me.
