Spinning

Spinning*

Michelle and I are playing tornado

in the backyard when Dad comes home early,

before Mom calls set the table,

and Dad pulls us into his lap.

We giggle because Dad has foxtails stuck

in his socks and a flower pinned under one ear

and Dad is an engineer.

None of this matters once he flips open

his vintage lunchbox,

and inside we don’t see this morning’s

turkey-avocado but a black rabbit

the size of two five-year-old hands.

It eyes four wagging ponytails

and four invading palms

as the tornados are forgotten.

Late afternoon light highlights only

what is still green and what is black,

we race around yelping because

we’ve got new overalls and a

brand new bunny to parade around like

we drew him ourselves,

wishing Teacher would pin him up on the

chalkboard so everyone would know

that he is ours, the world is green,

and still unshaken from our dizzy young orbit.

---

* published on firstwriter.com, summer 2006

For the Sun

For the Sun

every night as a child I would stand on the

splinter-strewn balcony and squint my eyes

in search of you

I longed to unhook your yellow curtain

that tied you to the distant hills,

let your precious golds and reds and magentas

pour down enriching color

onto the quilt-stitched fields,

building-studded city streets,

onto each bald and hairy head

every night as a child I was startled

when you eased down that slippery horizon,

locking yourself into the abyss

leaving me alone in the blue-blackness

to discover the moon