musings

physics

we’ve grown distant and

it tastes like stale day old coffee

it smells like cigarettes lingering on clothes

it feels like neglect

it resonates loud as a piano dropping from a skyscraper

no one notices all the space until something falls

no one notices all the growing apart 

until they feel the momentum of a collision

no one notices the chasm until it is

too wide to bridge

the gaping tears in the jeans until they are

too wide to mend

no one understands physics until they fall

I fell a month ago

I plummeted the way heavy things do

lead, boulders, pianos

with a sense of urgency

9.8 meters a second

the wind was unkind

it was unnerving

I expected you to catch me

arms outstretched,

 braced to receive my barreling frame

was this too much to ask?

was

it

too 

much

to 

ask?

I’ll never forget the way I felt

when you moved,

at the last minute

stepped aside,

Shifted your weight just slightly enough

to dodge mine

the safety was an illusion

the steadiness, a mirage

 my teeth tasted concrete

they chipped like antique piano keys

they chipped like paint on the walls of an abandoned house

I felt just that:

abandoned.

toothless.

bleeding

melting into the sidewalk

baking in the unforgiving sun

I saw one lone tear travel down your cheek

a lost tourist who doesn’t speak the language

you turned and walked away.

there is no map for maneuvering shame

no coordinates of its longitude and latitude 

it is a maze and we are rats

 

there is so much space between

whoyouare and whoithoughtyouwere and

whoiam and whoiwas and whoivebecome and

whoiwishtobe and whoweare and whoithoughtwewere and

whoithoughtwewouldgrowtobe

so much distance.

it tastes like stale day old coffee

reeks of cigarette resin

clamors loud as a plummeting piano.

 

fractions [new song]

my brother’s eyes were window panes, today

the glass was cracked, the drapes were grey

his peace, it lie in pieces, pieces

oh Sun, please rise to meet us, meet us 

now

‘cause he’s a fraction of a man

he’s a pie chart in the sand

oh, Lord, please take him by the hand

‘cause he’s a fraction of a man

just achin’ to be whole

my brother, he has seen too much

the war buried his peace in dust

he’s choking on this dust,

doesn’t know who he can trust

he’s seen so much,

he’s grown so numb

and he’s a fraction of a man

he’s a pie chart in the sand

oh, Lord, please take him by the hand

‘cause he’s a fraction of a man

just achin’ to be whole

brother, your yoke has grown heavy

brother, your gait is unsteady

brother, I’d give anything to be

little children in the trees again

but brother, we are older, 

and the weather, it’s grown colder

but i’m here, a sister and a friend

because you’re a fraction of a man

you’re a pie chart in the sand

oh, brother, I am stretching out my hand

because you’re a fraction of a man, 

but i know you can be whole

believe you can be whole

just know you can be whole

know you can be whole again

there’s something to be said for the ambulances

so shrill is the cry of the ambulance,

most sorrowful, more sad than all the train songs.

in brooding ballads, the trains sing of loneliness—

but the sirens, of death;

with the meter of a sonnet,

they muse of tragedy.

as i sit, toes on the concrete, 

bare back against bricks,

i listen.

i remember riding

to music lessons in mama’s

sputtering old suburban,

all cracked-windowed and 

deceased air conditioner—

we grieved its passing

in petty complaints,

with toddlerish tunnel vision.

sometimes it takes a symphony

of siren to birth sympathy,

and as an ambulance passed, 

i sat humbled atop the hot leather.

a silent reverence leapt about inside of me,

and i wept with fervor—

mama always told us to pray

when we saw ambulances.

…in college, i stopped praying,

began hopping trains—

i tumbled out of God’s graces

like a deviant apple.

i abandoned the orchard

a locust shedding its shell

a snake in newest skin— 

i shouldered a satchel of sins.

and despite such baggage, 

i still caught myself praying

for the ambulances,

with the sincerity of a surgeon,

and i meant these utterances—

i felt them in the depths of my.

digestive system.

i prayed… to some Thing beyond ceiling

there’s something to be said for the ambulances,

for foxholes,

for trauma—

they plant mustard seeds.

baby, there’s meadow inside of you

you used to be a woman of your word

words that swore you’d left

the weeping woods for good,

for placid meadows,

for peace,

for a most pastoral tableaux 

you swore you’d wait for me there,

but baby, i came calling 

yesterday.

you were gone,

nowhere to be found

amongst the wind-swept clovers

in your place, Disappointment—

he loomed,

casting shadows on the grass,

circling as the hawks do,

preying ominously,

i whispered a prayer for you,

lips parted,

heart sunken.

baby, we could have woven wreaths,

danced like fairies,

we could have been free,

free as gypsies,

swimming in truth,

humbled in its marvelous light,

lighter than feathers, transparent,

weightless whilst watching hummingbirds.

we’d have been squealing, laughter spilling,

running from the wicked honeybees.

tumbling to the ground, breathless,

tasting that decadent rush

that only fear can bring—

melt-in-your mouth adrenaline

dripping down our chins,

unaffected by our messes,

but you fled.

you left your shoes,

subtly as a symbol,

like an author in her allegory,

and

your shoes foreshadowed

the approaching recklessness—

i didn’t follow you. 

i’ve long stopped summoning such search parties.

i saw it coming with bookish eyes—

you reeked of cigarette smoke and despair

when we last spoke, 

but I didn’t stop you.

you were hacking

with heavy, labored lungs—

if only you’d see that

breathing could be easier.

you’ve always colored outside the lines

run barefoot, you used to love pink

and spending hours in maple trees

they’d cradle you—

you, harmless as a baby bird

caught in the gentlest nest—

the trees, the trees now carry

stark, dark new connotations,

and pink has lost its innocence for you.

you, you are less than innocent in this shift of diction—

your hands boast a bloody red.

…for you planted a wilderness,

swallowing the seeds

without water,

and you’ve gone there again.

that refuge—

it is refuse,

it is rubbish,

it is wretched.

it is a menacing forest,

with pretty little pink trees

they are dying, lying

atop one another in heaps—

round, mauve corpses

in brownish yellow bottles, nearly opaque.

slowly dissolving

chemical crutches

sold as bottled balance,

caked in fine print deception

i saw you lick the lies off your fingers like frosting once—

you laughed, said it tasted like lotuses;

it chilled me to the bone,

my marrow grew cold and frozen.

you have now joined the Lotus Eaters,

pupils, wide as saucers,

no wishes to return.

oh, with such remarkable ease

did you barter wisdom for folly,

birthright for the blandest stew,

and i hope it was worth it.

taste the contrast—

it is a chasm far too large for scaling.

stir the steaming cauldron,

season your betrayal, swallow it whole

like a wayward glutton.

your lips are dry, cracked desert,

peeling like the yellow wallpaper—

you claw at it 

with rabid animal savagery

you unravel,

a most unreliable narrator—

i’ve stopped believing your stories.

you deem your deeds

necessary for your balance, 

and the irony is astounding—

when will you understand

the magnitude of your teeterings?

your speech is whiskey-kissed, and your gait is wobbly.

you wobble like a tired old polka dancer with two left feet.

darling, you are more than see-saw ideology,

more than broken playground pleasures

and merry-go-round wishy washy existence,

awaken, O Sleeper!

this circus, your forest,

they are in flames,

a grass fire gone viral,

and you are ill-equipped for its quenching.

you are volunteer fire department,

faces ashen, bodies tired—

it is roaring conflagration.

you are no match—

it’ll certainly burn to the ground, 

and you, you make a most hopeless underdog.

it burns in the hues of 

the youth you lost

when you freed your balloons—

when

the strings snagged,

when

they were caught in the

naked, angry tree fingers—

you cried like mad.

oh, to feel such righteous passion

again

oh, to free yourself,

oh, to teach yourself,

the craft of climbing branches.

have faith in your limbs,

begin to climb,

limb to limb—

your muscles do remember.

maybe you could climb

until you felt capable,

cradled in your familiar familial maple,

maybe you could climb 

until your dilated eyes

could kiss the gentle sunshine 

once more with the new proximity.

though you’ve grown

pale, seasick green,

lungs, blackened, blue,

conscience, dull and bruised,

baby, there’s still

breathtaking

meadow inside of you.

baby, there’s meadow 

just beyond the dead wintry trees,

a place, safe, smelling sweet like spring, 

where you’d smile with ripened nectarine cheeks,

where you’d feel new as baby knees,

a place where you could practice balance, 

where you could stumble like Bambi 

and it’d be perfect in all its clumsy rediscovery…

you could move like a polka dancer

with two agile feet—

we could be lighter than feathers.

so let your forest die,

let your wilderness wither,

let your woods

breathe their

last

raspy

gasps—

bid them farewell.

condemn the house,

nail the boards, i’ll help you,

i’ve a hammer and two willing hands.

i’ll be waiting for you

like an expectant mother

like a prodigal’s father 

like the dawn, waiting to unveil its sun,

and the dusk exercising a similar patience

like seventy times seven

like Hosea

return,

return,

return,

as a woman

adorned in floral wreaths,

as a woman

clothed in words she keeps,

as a woman

draped in a most exquisite pink

eyes wild, curls unkempt

solid, sagacious, steadfast, strong—

return, and sleep amongst the wind-swept clovers.

Buttons [For Ms. Winters]

the church is spilling over with souls—

it is a dress far too small for squeezing

this plethora of love into.

plethora—

you taught me that word at seventeen.

the buttons are popping off,

littering the ground with your stories—

it is the sweetest sort of pollution.

i picked them up,

greedily filling my pockets,

what marvelous treasure is this!

i finger each button,

each a genie in a lamp storing memories,

and i smile…

the first, pink

pink like the cheeks of the misfit.

you cradled the misfits,

sought us out,

warmed us with your praise—

those misfits fill the pews,

tears staining tissues, 

we are still writing.

we are still dreaming.

now bearing the beauty

you are unable to radiate,

fully ready to assume our torches.

the next button, green—

a deep, brooding green,

green like envy.

you first taught me Emerson,

taught me that “envy is ignorance”

and “imitation is suicide.”

i marvel at the countless

suicides of mind,

suicides of heart, 

suicides of body

you must have prevented—

your belief in us

proved far more effective

than another faceless voice on a hotline.

i stroke the red one,

thinking of Poe

and our mutual love for his dark allure.

i think of “The Masque of the Red Death,”

i think of the unique way

you taught us allegory,

i think of how deeply you loathed the phrase

“very unique,”

of how you’d bitch that 

“things are either ‘one of a kind’ 

or they are not…

…’unique’ does not need an intensifier!”

i’ll miss your sarcasm.

i’ll miss your wit.

i’ll miss your mind.

i trace the blue button,

remembering Langston Hughes

and “I Too Sing, America.”

I fell in love with the Harlem Renaissance

and fell in hatred with injustice that day.

i remember that afternoon

you let me sing my own blues

in your classroom—

the blues of my brother’s deployment

and the fear that loomed like a shadow.

you let me just melt there,

a puddle of teenage apprehension.

you lent me your ears

when others sold empty promises.

the dress— it didn’t fit.

miles of the finest fabric

and the most skillful of tailors

could not contain your legacy.

each torn seam,

each wild thread,

each loosed button—

they tell your stories

we are your living, breathing library,

a most exquisite human archive.

we will carry you in our hearts,

until we too shall part.

today we are one.

today we are Oversoul.

today we celebrate.

we dance in all our

dirty-laundry-glory.

your shoes cannot be filled.

you wouldn’t want for that—

you’d want us dancing,

some of us in penny loafers,

others in stilettos,

and some of us in school-teacher pumps,

walking into classrooms

that are spilling over

like dresses far too small,

littering dusty floors

with our own buttons,

helping children find the shoes that fit best—

telling them they look lovely,

telling them they are brilliant, 

telling them they can do anything,

forever shining your light.

the red shoes that could talk [our lives are better spent as listeners]

the night i met you

sings clear as a bell.

it was nearly January,

the Oklahoma winds were harsh, 

void of mercy,

and i still remember what i wore: 

the tattered flannel shirt,

that delicate skirt,

reminiscent of the Victorian era—

threads, sheer and lacy, 

cream as my soft winter skin,

and those red flats, 

so worn they could speak.

they talked as I walked,

and I often wonder what they were saying 

that crisp Wednesday evening—

for I could not hear them over the 

volume of my heart palpitations,

my heart felt so tell-tale,

resounding from the floorboards.

my e.e. Cummings collection

peeked from my purse

as if it had eyes,

and it caught yours,

it impressed you—

and you impressed me.

did my lip quiver as i spoke, 

revealing all the sensual tension?

did my speech reflect

the pitter-patter of 

the butterfly colony

batting their pretty wings

in my insides?

quieting them was useless.

after five of the longest minutes,

i ceased to try, just let them fly—

for nerves can sometimes

make us feel more alive 

than most other muses.

even though our meeting 

meant nothing beyond

a future of warm espresso

spilled on my shirt,

a skirmish between sheets,

and a string of unrequited 

love poems and melodies,

it meant the acquisition of 

a lovely new friendship.

…as i sit here, 

i swell with gratitude,

swelling like a bright balloon,

and i smile as i finally set it free,

releasing the strings,

liberating my soul of its foolish aims.

if there’s one lesson I’ve learned in

my humble twenty-three years,

in the carving of these

twenty-three rings 

‘round this windblown tree,

it is that expectations are fleeting,

and false hope is a mirage.

the best pieces of life we clutch

and assemble into one grand puzzle

don’t usually fit where we 

first wished to place them,

and we spend far too many hours,

dwindling away all our 

lovely afternoons in our parlors,

trying to reshape their jagged edges,

molding them nonsensically,

frustrated as they refuse to budge,

beads of sweat spilling down our brows,

but i’ve stopped with you. 

i’ve stopped with the *us* that will 

never come to fruition, 

and I’m happier from it.

i’ve found that sheer joy comes when we

take the pieces life hands us

and thoughtfully place them 

where they fit.

for our lives, they are just puzzles

that we did not design,

usually acquired at thrift stores

with pieces missing

and no master guides,

but they’re lovely,

in and of their own right.

we can only see them clearly

when we stop. forcing. things.

we cannot gaze upon our

bigger pictures until 

we lie atop our death beds, 

for death is the glorious final piece, 

but i feel i’m getting closer to living 

with open hands and open eyes.

i left the talking shoes in Portland,

saw them again yesterday, 

behind my best friend’s bedroom door 

where i left them,

and the reunion was warm and blissful.

i smiled as i slipped them on,

much like Cinderella’s missing glass slipper 

at midnight, and i thought of you fondly—

for knowing you has taught me much.

our experiences are our textbooks,

and we should spend life as its students—

we should spend it, studiously, 

taking the most careful of notes.

as i don these shoes, red as rubies,

i dance, celebrating their fragility,

reveling in my lack of control,

marveling in the memories, 

and this time, i believe 

i’ve stilled my heart long enough

to listen to what they have to say—

for our lives are better spent as listeners.

when mountains meet valleys

you are a mountain

you are might, 

you are majesty

and I’ve not the faith to move you

I’ve squandered my mustard seeds

oh, how they scattered 

‘cross the concrete

I had not the heart to regather them

I am a valley—

it was not an avalanche that brought me here

it was a series of slow movements,

a scavenger hunt,

a most gradual descent

I fell into the deepest slumber 

and when you sleep in valleys long enough,

you become them

I became one with the grass,

and it was holy,

consummated like matrimony

my soul spilled into the tranquil creek

and I sighed in delight

I melted into the soil like a young bride

in the arms of her beloved

batting my pebble eyes

but I have not forgotten you

when mountains meet valleys

they revel in the magic,

they seem to fit like puzzles

they come together, 

giddy in this day trip,

but one must always travel further

true change is not evoked from muses

I think of you often, with fondness, 

but Mountain, you cannot see clearly

it is foggy beyond the tree line

I too have tasted the beauty

I have caught altitude sickness

once every summer of my youth

we’d all sit around the campfire and cry

scribbling our sins on papers,

flames engulfing the evidence

I never learned how to sustain it

how to remain breathless

when the oxygen is returned

like an unwanted Christmas gift

…but maybe you can

though I know so little, 

I do know this: 

I will not be your avalanche

though our friction is intoxicating,

and I will not taxi your descent

I will leave, quietly,

no clues planted for scavenging—

please do not follow

for though I am godforsaken valley, 

I pray you remain eternal mountain

all that glitters is gilded

we are little children,

hands sticky

forging collages with 

finger paint,

glue sticks, 

glitter,

and we’ve made a mess of ourselves,

we’ve made a mess of our world

but oh, how it glimmers

it is a snow globe,

tiny, tangible, flawless

teetering on the edge of the coffee table

like a final Jenga move

the fragility is unfortunate

yet still we tread, 

so recklessly,

strides heavy like elephants,

chasing anything that shines

we chase in our herds,

together but so alone,

longing to be noticed,

to be worshiped like golden calves,

but so afraid of sticking out

in all our awkward angles

we are paradoxes,

pairs of mismatched socks, and

…humans, we are quite peculiar creatures…

there are questions,

questions we have all asked

keeping us awake in our beds

keeping us frightened, inquiring

questions far too large to be

whisked away with sheep counting, 

and they do not disappear when unacknowledged

in our mad scurry,

who will catch the snow globe?

we are all too busy,

numbing our reflexes,

calling it “entertainment”

and we are all so loud, 

all so proud,

in our 

blabbering.bustling.mumbling.stumbling. 

little human conditions

who here is still enough to notice?

who keeps quiet enough to listen?

the snow globe, 

it’ll shatter someday

and we will lie on the cold ground

amongst the snowflake confetti

gasping for air like fish out of water

with lungs that have forgotten what

authentic oxygen

tastes like 

though breathing it

was once muscle memory

maybe this tragedy

will give us cause to slow down

will give us cause to pause

with eyes open and awake

perhaps we’ll see that all this glitter,

it is irksome

it is elementary 

wearing off like puppy love,

no, it never stays where it is placed

its pesky flecks clinging to everything,

much like dames with daddy issues,

and its worthless little fragments

are reminders, strings on fingers,

of the many times

we’ve all been tricked by the fool’s gold

yes, it is hard to know genuine in a gilded world,

but when the glitter has all worn off,

we’ll see it all for 

what it has 

always been

we’ll be little children,

naked as the day of our births,

stripped of all our shiny,

noses in corners,

hands scrubbed clean 

clasped behind our backs,

heads down,

brows furrowed in shame

and what will we have to say for ourselves?

life is no parade

if life was a small town parade

it’d commence like clockwork, 

an annual autumn affair

it’d be hoop skirts, handkerchiefs, lipstick

it’d be dressed its best in a saucy red

all flamboyance and flamenco

sausage smoked on sticks, still slightly pink

and it’d be ardent band mom bake sales

it’d be candy carelessly tossed from floats like hand grenades,

wrappers littering the streets like neon debris in the aftermath

and it’d spark a sugar-sticky war of bloody noses and hurt feelings

and dismembered first-grade friendships

it’d be powdery funnel cakes and slippery dunk tanks,

a party on a platform ‘til the varsity pitcher shows up

with pockets full of quarters

it’d be marching bands in feathered hats

the glitter of capes and baldrics gleaming 

fifty pairs of feet marching mindlessly, 

each white shoe another colorless bolt

in a sharp-dressed machine

the sousaphones would bellow and the trumpets,

they’d shriek with a patriotic shrillness

the piccolos would sing bird songs

and the batons would dance, methodically

the flags would twirl, mechanically

all would be orderly

all would be synchrony

if life was such a parade,

a morning’s fill of predictable thrills

it’d be cotton candy and lawn chairs and free pens from the bank

it’d be wrinkly, winking men,

a display of bald-headed, silver-haired glory, 

they’d drive tiny, shiny cars

and the red paint would come to life

through all the motion, amidst the commotion

and they’d drive the way they used to

when they’d drag Main, still green at sixteen

they’ve been waxing their toys for weeks,

like pretty women primping for pageants,

but the street and the stages

just never seem long enough

there’d be a float for each church,

spilling over with good intentions

and families with too many children, 

how they’d swell up with pride at their banners bearing

their witty little slogans,

the words all dressed up in bubble font and primary colors

there’d be this unacknowledged undercurrent

between the Baptists and the Methodists and the Presbyterians 

a de facto competition over who has the better float,

a rivalry reminiscent of the summer softball league

and all the hard feelings that linger

much like crusty, forgotten leftovers

perhaps they should sing that

cute “fruits of the spirit” song a little louder

if life was a small town parade,

a spectacle of ritual and routine,

it’d be pickles canned lovingly

by the same cranky ladies in their musty cellars

you’d wonder how old they must be getting,

still sporting the same bluish bobs they wore

when they changed your dirty diapers in the nursery

it’d be gaudy turquoise bracelets and rhinestone brooches

and thoughtful quilts for sale

it’d be trailers full of cheerleaders,

there’d be ribbons and pompoms and

an excess of box-blonde school spirit,

and they’d be chanting, all cookie-cuttered and rehearsed

it’d be firetrucks and police cars and homecoming queens

practicing princess waves and politician grins,

jaws numb and cheeks sleepy

it’d be bicycles with big baskets and petting zoos,

aggressive bunnies that bite really damn hard

and lambs that keep shitting everywhere,

donkey rides and maybe even that llama from last year

back by popular demand

it’d be yellow tape and orange cones

pot-bellied cops and bold sidewalk chalk

it’d be awkward moments with old classmates,

always cordial but always lasting too long

it’d be black control tops to hide weight gain

and rouge to hide aging

it’d really just be a great deal of bragging,

and pretending,

and i think it’d get quite tiresome

…and it’d all end so abruptly, 

it’d just melt away, 

a fumbled waffle cone, a pink strawberry puddle,

staining Main ‘til that pesky feral cat laps it up,

her purr accelerating from the sugar buzz

but we’d see it all coming and 

wouldn’t that be kinder?

all the townspeople would go home

they’d mow their lawns for the last time ‘til spring

they’d take afternoon naps and gossip

there’d be a week of goldfish funerals

and trophies collecting dust on mantles

but we’d have expected it

we’d rest easy with the knowledge that

we’ll all do this again next year,

for there will be many more parades

…but no, life is not an annual parade,

though many would much prefer it,

and we cannot see the floats coming from miles away

people don’t just throw jawbreakers at you

but jaws do get broken sometimes

it’s a mystery and a crime scene

and a novella with missing pages

and it is our curious confusion that keeps us all reading

it keeps us all humbled,

awing us like the baffled pupils we are

it is both merciless and gracious, and

it’s the surprise that gives it substance

its brevity fuels our bewilderment

this life, it is brutal and and ugly and violent,

it is perfect and gorgeous and colorful,

oh, what a harmonious cacophony!

clarity can be found in its dissonance

we are all tiny hourglasses,

just bumping into each other

and sometimes shattering

before our sand can fully run its course

it’s never fair, but always just

it doesn’t make any sense, but certainly it resolves

…someday, it must

and no, life is not an annual parade— 

it is a daily cause for celebration.

on names and the prettiest paint

my last name is Kinder, and it is German,

in case you were curious, and 

German is my least favorite of the languages,

it just always sounds so harsh.

it’s unbecoming to spend life angry,

life is better suited for arts and crafts,

and if our anger was currency, it’d be rusty pennies. 

when our pockets all fill up so fast,

it gets heavy— taxing, tedious, tiresome— and it gets loud

to carry around so much loose change, 

just jangling like little gongs.

I think that if I ever learn to speak German

I’ll speak it in a quite pleasant tone.

Kinder translates to “child” or “children,”

and “It’s Kinder, like kindergarten,”

is a phrase I say often

in regards to pronunciation,

think “kindergarten,”

a blooming garden of snotty little noses,

peeing their pants

and singing songs about inchworms.

a place where the kids with television sets for parents

teach the others how to swear like sailors

and how to insult with

the latest anatomical slang.

it is a shame that so many guardians

have antennas for ears and faces that shift hues.

it is so hard to know which shade is the proper one to color yourself in

when you’re five and there is no one nearby to ask,

when Big Bird and Elmo have stopped replying

and everyone else is just trying to sell you things.

it’s hard to learn morality

when what you need is

a paint-by-numbers and fresh set of watercolors,

but what you have is

a coloring book and box of broken crayons.

these kids contain Monet capacities

that are too often expressed in graffiti.

I joke that my name means that 

I’ll either have too many children or never grow up,

and I cross my fingers in favor of the latter.

I cross them ‘til they’re white, ‘til my head feels light,

because raising children just sounds so damn terrifying.

it sounds like

folds of stretchy skin and sleepless nights,

it reeks of 

soiled diapers and vomit, milky-white,

it tastes like

responsibility and maturity,

and it would involve a little growing up.

I do not have antenna ears or circuit veins,

and I do not believe in giving a noisy little box so much responsibility.

what I do believe in is

swing sets and songbooks and family dinners

bear hugs and bedtime stories and helping with homework

training wheels and in taking them off,

even though you know it will mean skinned knees and gravel removal.

and even though you know it will mean peroxide and cotton balls and gauze,

it will mean courage.

it will be worth it.

I believe in making chores into games and tree-climbing and silly song-writing.

I believe in kite-making and kite-flying and living room tenting,

and yes, in camping outdoors too.

If parenting was a presidential campaign,

and I decided to run, 

I’d run on a platform of 

cookie dough and themed parties and cake batter,

with pixie sticks and crazy straws for legs, 

my first law would be

that mixing bowls and beaters must always be licked,

but we’d eat a lot of vegetables.

the only weapons allowed would be water balloons and sarcasm,

and all wars would be fought with tickling.

at rallies, we’d roll around in the mud,

and hell, if there’s a nasty drought,

we’ll build our own mud pit with dirt and a garden hose 

like I did for my fifth birthday,

and we’ll shake our fists at the sky for its stingy behavior.

some things are worth the waste of water.

I believe in trips to libraries and to zoos and to history museums,

in teaching that quirky Christmas traditions

are better than extravagant gift-giving—

that greed is just exhausting,

and that memories will never collect dust.

I believe that violent games of spoons must be played ’til blood is drawn,

and they should be resumed once the band-aids are in place.

I believe in imaginary friends and in make believe and in playing dress up.

I believe in nicknaming over name calling,

in teaching kids about sex before their friends do,

and in a home that allows for question-asking,

with doors wide open and plenty of room

for the neighbor kids with talking box parents.

perhaps I might someday raise children

just so I can teach them that kind, considerate citizens

can still live free and child-like.

it maybe even sounds a little nice,

it maybe even sounds a little magical

if done right, but…

it probably should also involve a marriage,

which is equally terrifying.

I’d have to lose my last name,

the aforementioned cause for the waddling toddler curse,

but really, what’s so special about a name?

names are just strings of letters tied together with strands of DNA

just cords not cut at birth, but often severed in ceremonies.

perhaps painting a family portrait 

with careful strokes and vivid watercolors

could be quite special,

a family that refuses to let the sun set on anger

and that goes to bed with pockets empty.

a family that knows that if anger was currency,

it’d be rusty pennies,

and pennies are just so heavy.

a family that’d rather

spend tokens of grace instead.

my last name is Kinder, and it is German,

in case you were curious.

it is a school uniform I did not choose, but can only wear

because a woman traded her Welsh wool for German once.

she plans to keep it for life,

though she too thinks the language sounds angry.

I’m only breathing because two people fell in love and

thought it might be fun to paint one of those portraits.

they thought it might be special,

thought the magic just might be worth

the maturity that’d be necessary to pull it off,

and maybe, just maybe, someday

I’ll think so too.

maybe, just maybe, someday

I’ll find myself wearing a new last name,

a new uniform,

its plaid pleats splattered

with the prettiest paint.