Their little eyes

That familiar Los Angeles air is always suffocating. It’s always either too hot, or too humid, or too cold, or too dry as the bi-polar city always tends to be. Cement jackets both the buildings and the ground and you’re lucky if you spot a tree or a bush. Yet they play and laugh and run around in their second-hand uniforms as if they don’t go to a school that needs to be guarded by secured gates, as if they don’t live in the same neighborhood as gang members, as if they don’t need to rely on scholarship money from strangers to eat lunch.

Every time I step inside those gates, I am bombarded by little hands slipping into my own hands, tugging at the bottom of my shirt, and shoving un-opened mini chocolate milk cartons in my face. Every time I step inside those gates, without fail, I am smothered in hugs and a monotonous little question, “Wanna play tag?!”

They don’t know me as “white” or “rich” or “charitable.” Most of them don’t even remember my name from week to week. They don’t care. They only see me as another person, someone else to play with, and that’s all that matters to them.

They are five and six years old and most of them don’t know English very well, which makes them difficult to understand. But this means nothing. We still laugh and play and read picture books as if language were trivial.

In the classroom, I sit in the same tiny chairs as them at the same short table. My knees almost touch my chin and my thighs spill over the sides of the chair and somehow I’m supposed to look authoritative and respectable. We all know I don’t so we laugh and attempt to talk about our brothers and sisters or The Little Mermaid or Hot Wheels. Most of the time I just smile or nod my head or say something general like “That’s silly,” or “So Cool!” because I have no idea what they’re trying to giggle in my ears.

Regardless, their eyes say it all. Their small, glistering eyes whether eager, or tired, or wearied, or curious, or joyous tell me everything and nothing at the same time. Their eyes hold their stories, their struggles, their secrets. They tell me everything they want me to know. They tell me everything they don’t want me to know. But I can’t articulate it. I know, but I can’t understand the specificities. This kills me. I want nothing more than to stuff all of them inside my little apartment and give them all my food and clothes and books and love them like they deserve to be loved.

I don’t know their histories or the details of their daily life. I don’t know if they in fact have loving arms taking care of them. But I do know. Their eyes told me. 

More Poems!

I just have so much fun writing poems and thought I'd share:)

The Orchard

I remember tripping over roots

trying to keep up with you.

I was carrying our,

your,

baby in a badly woven basket.

Her plum-like cheeks popped

over the knitted blanket.

Her inquiring eyes never diverted

from my face.

I don’t know why, but I obeyed you,

leaving her in the mossy, creaking

cabin hidden at the far end of

The Orchard.

I remember thinking The Orchard

looked pretty that day.

Golden, rusty leaves were twirling

in the gusty breeze.

Rosy sunbeams pierced through

the lazy sky, stratifying the clouds.

I spotted one shiny apple

still dangling from a tree.

You told me I couldn’t pick it.

We were in a hurry.

I remember following you,

running through dense forest

until you decided to stop.

You told me to climb a tree,

to find a sturdy branch.

I could see your bones trembling

with determination as we climbed.

We dangled our legs over a thick, flakey branch.

You tied a burly rope around my neck.

It itched.

Your cold, stark hand interlaced with mine.

You told me to jump on the count of three.

I remember dangling.

My feet swinging in the anorexic air,

my lungs shriveling under my collapsing ribs,

my hands tearing at the burly rope,

who’s scratching had turned into irritating

pain.

I remember staring at you.

Your feet were stagnant, magnetized by gravity.

You hands looked like frozen peaches.

Your head drooped heavily on top of your chest.

Your body glistened with lifeless beads of sweat.

I remember them asking me where

our,

your,

baby was after they cut us down,

but I couldn’t remember.

All I could think about was the last time

your porcelain hand was interlaced

with mine.

Sonnet

One day I drove along a weary road

between two hills, surrounded by vineyards.

Twisting vines dangled grapes too large for words.

In the cool air, the luscious green leaves glowed.

‘Cross the horizon, the golden sun flowed,

kissing the tops of trees before night turned.

The gleeful, flawless, fruitful songs of birds,

seemingly fostered a secret love code.

But this life was hindered by one dead tree.

Its branches were leafless and shedding bark.

Its old trunk uprooted and seemed to be

corrupting the life of the chirping larks.

With this one dead image I wanted to flee.

One tree stripped that living visage stark.