Urban 24.3
The Tucson oasis nestled at the bottom of an Eegee’s driveway
acted as a central park, giving our childhoods a safe place
to roam, play, or monkey
around on the outdoor exercise equipment lining sidewalks, and resting
as the poster of youth in conversations with friends. Then
you chased me back to my childhood 11 years later by pausing momentarily,
waiting for our signal from below before scorching yourself
on the slide. With you, hands held
confirmed the slide was too hot and the Airbnb felt cooler.
You posed like a starfish at the bottom, celebrating our first visit back since leaving.
Our worn sneakers wandered old streets,
with you ditching my adventure in alleyways and overtaking corners
without caution. How could a toddler sprint
in the opposite direction and share moments of perception
when we can’t even wait together?
Instead, our laughs dodged neighbor’s sprinklers over their mesquite lawns,
giving my childhood a second chance.
Sleep tight on your third night
Cradled in my arms, she slumbered,
wriggling, interlocking her fingers and toes
together, and struggling to search
behind her lids for mine, she cried.
Our divided childhoods were bridged by
adjustments shared in solitary play.
lonely siblings separately in sync. You cried
for 35 minutes in the car
from Sean and Rosie’s 4th of July party.
Fidgeting with the stillness in your bucket seat,
halfway between today and tomorrow.
The clang of Dad’s keys against the door clung to your ears,
marking your return home. An undisturbed transition
from automobile to bedside sleeper
overtook my grasp. Dad scooped your heat
from the seat and proceeded to pat you to sleep.
Forget Your Chores
Having the same father 11 years apart
required mine to be divided from your co-parent perspective,
homemade meals routinely ready at the table?
Cora, by 10 my parents were separated—
by 5 states, and they were seeing other people.
Little C, what are the suburbs like?
What’s it like growing under the same roof?
With sidewalks, and big yards, where you mistake fireworks
for gunshots. At 10, I knew the difference.
Trap houses and swat teams circled my block,
sounding off as shots flew,
I couldn’t take the trash out by myself.
A decade in, little sister,
how have you spent your time?
Join a swim club, museum memberships, and fresh hot cocoa
with every sunrise, but the drive to my school took 40 minutes.
Swiss Miss was a luxury for me. Cora, I love you,
but please do the dishes and pick up your socks.
To Feel and Go Play
For her midday snack, she sliced
cheese and prosciutto, and slid a side-eyed glance
that said, “I’m no longer afraid of black holes”—
“Well, maybe I am a little.”
A light goes off,
a mutual understanding of fear,
who doesn’t pick and choose to haunt
shadowed worries without hesitation.
“I don’t know how to think most of the time.”
Standing shoulder to shoulder in our front yard I’m struck
by a photograph taken of us—
Kicking myself for losing the ordinary.
Her pink plastic play purse fell
somewhere, possibly at the park, so I desperately searched
under benches, in tubular slides, below bushes,
my sister offered tired shrills while standing
isolated in a packed park when we found it,
her anguish subsided and hiccups followed.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Yesterday’s Afternoon
On gloomy days,
in the presence of a wise 6-year-old,
I asked her,
“What do you do when you start to get scared?”
Organizing a cracker-cheese-prosciutto tray,
she wondered aloud,
“There’s not really anything I do.
I just feel it and go play.”
The day was chilled by occasional gusts,
placing sand in every crevice;
Monday’s at the beach and your ringing reminder
not to touch washed-up jellyfish.
She found her first sand dollar on a bed of sand at the basin of her red pale.
Her small hands cupped the ocean relic
But it broke once she let go.
We both nearly cried.
I think of how we drive twenty minutes in the hot sun,
search for fifteen minutes for a parking spot, drop—
a small fortune into the parking meter,
stub your toe on the concrete while dragging the cooler
a half-mile down the road, and we do it, over and over,
just to bear witness to it all; to make ourselves known
to each other, ourselves, and every fear within us.
And still, I fed the meter twice, not wanting it all to end.
After the Beginning
Her eyes grew shriveled,
shrouded, and limp, so she paused,
each missed breath brought new life
to her swollen eyes. Dilated, her focus sunk
to the ground where she stood,
on her own for the first time.
The corner of her mouth broke
at its corners, giggling at any face I’d make.
I wondered how she’d hold still and develop
memories but I kept my mouth closed,
and vacuumed instead, hoping
words from our cat, an impossible feat
and desperate attempt to pretend
that our feline friend could replace my words
when he’d rather scratch and sniff the cat tree.
Palpitations
Holding my chest,
awaiting the crash
you’ve been building
down to nowhere,
far from those who steep
blinded from the damage
on streets by evasive conversation.
Muffled in streets,
tracing curbs and making up
games of swinging- like monkeys-
lamp posts to parking meters
scattering your prints,
leaving your presence
externalizing you.
Perpetually, struggling
to catch the rattles
biting my mind
I run, closer
to the end
of this and the beginning
with you.
Too many turns
down back alleys
splashing soiled puddles
because “jaywalking is cooler”?
especially across poorly lit avenues
adorned by empty storefronts
caked with pigeons perched
on the corners cooing,
waiting for us to drop
like scraps.
In the Future
Steer away from Dad’s closet,
in it are memories tucked behind unopened gifts
and childhood t-shirts.
Our radio-controlled train set: The Coastal Express
has circled our tree, collecting fur and needles for 21 years.
Running from Tucson to Circle City,
bobbing decorations and low-hanging ornaments,
do you remember when the train ran out of steam?
Don’t you remember Dad trying
with your books buried deep in cedar chests, only for
his back-shooting pain to shuffle
like the caboose from stale styrofoam?
He could do it alone, but siblings help each other
while laughing at the years he struggled.
Dad was at work when I asked C to help
pull that broken box from his closet.
Aboard was a plastic passenger burdened
by existing, blissfully unaware
that there will be a day when Dad stops
conducting. A time when you and I will live without
selecting the books for the tracks in back
because Dad won’t be here.
Side by Side
At the end of 18 holes, I could play another
instead, you call me home to play our made-up game.
We walk, side by side, and scour our yard
for a stick solid enough to stab the ground.
I lined up by the mailbox, and you,
nearly 70 yards opposite, stamped the wooden rod in the ground,
challenging my abilities with a smile.
You called “All clear!” from beyond our house,
Obviously, my signal to swing.
Moments like this remind me that you
are — occasionally— an only child, too, who sometimes envies
the siblings of friends at home.
Having been part-time for so long,
we’ve learned to embrace our infrequent shared air.
Sunken in soft earth, side by side, we stood over my ball
in our neighbor's yard. Confused, you snickered at my bad shot.
Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene
I fell in love with a borderless language in preschool.
It was a Danish brick made of plastic
pieces that connected us—
our first mutual friend.
Bound by international imagination, we made discoveries
by making Harry Potter and Batman disruptive,
complicated neighbors of Darth Vader.
Or maybe it was my influence that moved you
into this Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene game.
We spent plenty of washed-out days together,
our hands buried up to our elbows
in storage bins, specifically
hunting for the L-curved, 2x6 studded, flat brick.
I revisited a subdivision from my childhood recently,
and remembered Mom picking me up and Dad calling,
celebrating the news of you in the backseat of 5th grade.
I remember hanging up in overjoyed silence,
excited for you to help me find the piece that fits.
Host
You tried your best at shepherding,
I witnessed 9-year-olds juggle their futures while channel surfing.
Pausing at my door, hushed whispers asked if I could hear them
heckling me with shallow inquisitions: What’s that do?
pointing to a shelf, I promise I won’t break it.
I offered the 21 Question system to transport them
anywhere else.
Born to host and salvage my safe space,
I ventured further into the kitchen,
and was bombarded by adolescent paparazzi.
Mostly traveling in groups of 3, a straggler asked
for pranks worth pulling or delirious jokes
to share and spoil their glazed reality, only they don’t see
you standing behind them like the perfect host you were born to be.
St. Elmo’s Meltdown
A Party of four ate late under “Bell”
family of four sits in back, far from the front windows,
Complimentary parmesan crisps and warm buttered bread
couldn’t hold you from folding in
once you grew tired of your lobster mac.
You were mad that the booth was leather lined,
making it hard to sit upright, even
halfway, done with the year topped off by prime dining,
and you dozed.
I should thank the staff for keeping us in the back
with other families waiting for their checks to clear,
or until their dad’s glass was dry.
Getting Old with Growing Up
Stuck inside a Muskoka cabin and far from you,
I’m left beating myself up and wondering
if it was me who lost touch or you that grew up.
Did I leave you out or have you discovered the independence of choice?
Christmas morning, and separated by a country, Mom asked if I missed you
on such a day and I couldn’t say no. At 10, I remember
overthinking about matching,
oblivious to fetid scents and their overkill, I wanted my crush
to recognize my attempts to be seen,
but I struggled in learning about her
recess patterns, trying to sneak a word in.
I look at you and see myself, stabbing
at the chance at a fair shot of being understood.
I’ve forgotten what boys say in embarrassing classroom moments,
I’ve lost touch with my childhood and fear I’ll lose you
to locker combinations and bad friends.
Elementary Dream
You started coming home unhappy,
darting to your space
for a room of your own,
dissatisfied with your toys and our television
Legitimately embarrassed for friends to see your family
doesn’t share the interests
in possessions as you. I laugh
at the ones who snark at you,
those judgemental twerps are reserves
in their clique.
C, you have it better off than most,
better than I did,
but this isn’t mine to live.
I come to grips with inadequacy.
That crummy feeling strikes a nerve
since it is up to TikTok’s digital standard.
Virtual Playgrounds take the shape of gallows,
kids strung from monkey bars cast away
Mind you, the runway strut into class
the day back from break
shakes your juvenile clutches around the identity
of those meaningless 10-second thieves.
Bathrooms and Laptops
Water-warped notes from you decorate my toiletry bag,
Listerine words worn around prescriptions, your focus hung
from my toothbrush and wished for safe travels
as I embark on my final collegiate semester.
Presumably printed and pasted on my door,
when did you pick this game?
Possibly a digested scene from your favorite Disney flick
or merely mimicking your parents? Unintentionally,
this method of communicating remains perpetually fragile.
Our days aren’t mirrored, they’re 11 years apart.
only together do our days find time to align,
preoccupied with TikTok and screen time —
you’re abbreviated.
Luv u sis, but this preteen habit has bled
into your daily vocab fit for a text.
Overlapping Adolescence
Elementary security isn’t what it used to be.
Double-lined entry doors ornamented with cameras,
coupled with a speaker,
and button to press on the right.
Just to walk in the door. Makes sense,
I guess, these are important people inside,
welcoming us this afternoon.
Being on this side of child-sized bathrooms is new
for me. I remember the years of scholastic fairs,
fundraising, and canned food drives.
The days that exemplified being the youngest—
in any room.
I remember sitting in the back of the bus
with pride, until a high schooler offered to open me
using a snapped bar from another seat,
then I was scared of the back of the bus.
I sat in falsely influenced maturity,
like a rising 6th grader stepping
into double-digit-sized shoes.
Having seen your side of things,
when you’re young and deserving
of protection, like locked entry doors
and an SRO out front.
All I’m saying is enjoy your homemade charcuterie and coloring
outside the lines, because your world is not the real one.
Two Lonely Children
At 10 sat an only child,
by 11 another arrived,
also lost in their own way.
The siblings sat at separate tables
where two lonely children,
apart in state and life,
were left wondering about the other.
Growing up, classmates threw skewed looks
whenever I explained how my sister lived away
with our dad, while I stuck with my mom,
proceeded by extensive conversations explaining
why my parents weren’t going to hell for being divorced.
Children aren’t meant to understand, children
are meant to learn, and what makes a child so,
is if they’re able to grow,
into respectable beings and facilitators for humanity.
So, Cora, if a classmate cocks their head
at you, know that what they see is teaching them how to be.
S’mores
Before you enter the pubescent wilderness,
know that learning and life are a little harrier.
You'll leave naps and elementary school behind,
and fill with emotion.
Summer may feel like a break
because Junior high will demand more of you,
and it's important to stay no matter how it gets.
Gather around the chiminea with s’mores,
toast yourself and char marshmallows, and remember
that these moments of childhood bliss are precious and fleeting.
So, before you walk the hormonal halls of junior high, remember to stay
strong, be true, and try.
Life will throw curveballs, but you can hit them, just wait
and see, and know that you have the love of your family
before teenage drama and real-world worries kick memories
held up close. I tasted my last s’more, convinced for another—
until you asked for one more. Balled in your seat, prepared for a tornado,
she cried, “You ate the last piece!”
Fairground Meltdown
God, you were fuming that day. Screaming—
I'm getting in the car and buckling myself,
at us. Your fists furiously pounding the air,
I’m angry at all of you, your arms stretching
the undersized Team USA shirt above your belly button.
Your insistence ricocheted off our garage
and into my memory as one of our own.
I toiled here while your Arizona roots sprouted under our Indiana soil,
for years, and now, you refuse to leave.
Praising this Hoosier cornyard as yours,
before throwing a fit at home
because you dropped a half-eaten fried Milkyway near a pigstye,
but you’d rather tickle horse tails and ride the Ferris wheel than remember Sonoran living.
Hamilton County
All my friends from high school are pregnant, married,
or both, and I don’t know how to feel about it.
Last I checked, people at twenty-two have a lot
of growing to do.
The last thing I’d want on my plate is an offspring or spouse,
but that can’t just be me. None of my childhood friends went to college.
Hell, in Tennessee, my friends prefer a beer and bonfire
over paying tuition. When I golf with buddies back home,
I’m the one that’s made fun of for spending money on my education;
I learn everything I need on Youtube — for free
believing they outsmarted me.
Split
in two, like a custody battle.
in two, like an unwrapped Twix.
in two, like perforated edges.
in two, like my parents.
in two, like a double Popsicle.
in two, like the studio my mom and I lived in.
in two, like 7 & 10 pins.
in two, like a package of chopsticks.
in two, like moving between childhood homes.
in two, like a certain kind of Pea soup.
in two, like a lightning-struck tree.
in two, like a broken promise.
in two, like shareable dessert.
in two, like prepackaged food.
in two, like a rift between friends.
in two, like losing the other half of an uneaten sandwich.
in two, like us.
Rhythm and Blues
I didn’t think the two of us would be seated on the floor
outside the bathroom in a funeral home.
Papa’s open casket wasn’t nearly as open
as the mouth of some distant cousin
whose voice carried closer until she was standing
in front of us. Her hands cupped, asking you in a murmur
for a cube of Cheddar to distract her from the sadness.
But she didn’t end there, she continued
chatting us up without eye contact, her habit of twisting
her hands into complex finger puzzles
while gyrating to the recessional.
Don’t hold me to my word, but I’m pretty sure this marked
the first time you and I flashed faces at each other, trying
to figure out how we both could get away
from this cheesemonger. Again, don’t hold it against me,
but I’m also pretty sure we walked away from her,
and she followed.
