extra value meal

the whole drive back home 
from getting our saturday breakfast
an egg mcmuffin meal
hotcakes and sausage
and an extra hash brown for mama

your words
sentences
paragraphs
and entire stories
percolated up from
the car seat behind me

your words, the sugar in my coffee
you, the coffee itself

a voice for one

we could always tell 

from the first words my dad spoke

when he picked up the phone

that he was talking to his brother Jim

his voice was louder than normal

had an ironton missouri twang

and it contained a unique

and exuberant joy

this voice was used by my father

only when he spoke to his brother

and today that voice is gone

having nobody else in this world
to talk to 

salina, ks

early this morning

as the thunderstorm rolled in

i fed you the names

to its each of its parts

to push aside your fear

we repeated the words

like mantras

each time a flash

came through the seam

in the hotel blackout curtains

your words smaller

and a moment behind mine

lightning...lightning

thunder...thunder

lightning...lightning

thunder...thunder

after the storms had passed

and the morning arrived

you woke

and turned your head

to the windows again

you spoke

as if you were talking

to your toddler friends

who were getting into their parents cars

the morning after a sleepover

bye bye lightning

bye bye thunder

bye bye dark

an axle in your bellybutton

just like the wind turbines
we saw driving i70 
through kansas the day before

you spun slowly all night 
between us
in the king size hotel bed
your head in my armpit
your feet in my face
your ribcage across my knee

the tiny mechanisms
of your sleep
groaning quietly
as you turned

scratch

If, as the cue ball
You could scoop from the pocket
And aim again




--------
the above is a "poemlet" from my sister
an amazing writer
and person of tender sentiments
and melissa and i am honored
and touched by her words.
and by the fact she allowed me
to post this here
with a title of my own addition
-------

are/were

for a few more hours today
You are Schrodinger's embryo
You are quantum
You are alive, implanted, thriving and dividing
and at the same time already gone missing
slipped away over the edge silently
while we were both watching so intently
and so unable to see

our only evidences
were twinges on tuesday
and nausea today
and all i have are those descriptions
and the wrong size boxes
in which to put them

it is now 6:29pm CST
and all week we have been on
increasingly sharpened tenterhooks
balanced between tears of two flavors
without a grain of middle ground in sight

captain nugget and the fuzzy cargo

it was probably 
the abnormal amount of rain
and the distant flashes of lightning
working their way
through the folds in your blackout curtains
at 3:17 this morning
that raised your alarm

we took shifts laying on the floor 
next to your bed
one hand extended up into yours
trying to soothe you back to sleep
but unable to let go 
and move towards the door
without you raising your head 

it wasn’t until i thought about the quilt
your mama draped over me 
when my shift started
that i understood

the quilt my grandma ellie made for me 
when i was only one
has Noah’s ark on a blue background
all the animals looking out their windows
with an owl at the top 
watching the waves curling against the orange hull

you were surrounded in your crib
by a rainbow giraffe
blue bear the green dog
a small mouse holding a green blanket
a washington u ladies basketball bear 
with converse high tops
an elephant with a light in its back
projecting stars and planets on the ceiling
and minnie mouse and sock monkey 
nestled into the corner

you had brought them all aboard last night
each and every one confirmed
the same as every night
up from the couch
up the stairs to your room
and into their proper places among your blankets

and now you standing at the bow of your bed
your hands gripping the top railing tightly
like a ship’s captain on the rough and squirming seas
awake on the helm all night 
eyes locked onto the horizon
keeping the ship at right angles
to the wind 
and to the waves

the world behind the stroller this morning

was the smell of humid earth

shocked into action

by a rare high desert rain last night

was the sound of bits of songs

you murmured like a mantra

interrupted by the words

for the animals along the way

was the sight of your hand reaching out

from under the shaded canopy

every time we walked next a juniper bush

or patch of feather reed grasses to let them wave and flutter through your fingers

big munny, little munny

on our early morning stroller walk today

we see the first fawn of the year

a tiny spotty puppy-sized mule deer

grazing in the gambel oaks with its mama

the waning gibbous moon setting behind us

through a grove of cypress

the sun rising ahead of us

filtering through fluttering aspen in the creek

by what will be your elementary school

we hear a woodpecker

pecking out its morse code mating call

staccato on the stucco side of a house

all the way down the street we see rabbits

and using your word for them

we call them out together

big munny

little munny

big munnies stock still by the russian sage

little munnies hopping around in the grasses

big munny by the juniper bushes

little munny running across the street

big munny ducking underneath the cedar fence

little munny hiding in the drainage pipe

as we turn the corner

to head back up the trail

the sun at our backs

casts my shadow long above the stroller

and i bend over you to look at you

to see your quiet watchful face

big munny

little munny

An Initial Proof of Maternal Calculus

every time 
in the night
especially the first few days
the first few weeks
the first few months
but even now 
still
19 months later
when one of sadie’s small mid-night cries
comes through the wall 
between the nursery and our bedroom
then delayed a second 
also through the nest cam monitor 
on the table by your side of the bed

the sound of her cry 
startles the arc of my heartbeat
and rolls me towards the sound
to see if there is anything i can 
if there is anything i should 
do

this is just one small fact 
one small instinctual fatherly reaction
but i have been developing this formula
ever since her first sounds 
interrupted themselves into our sleep

i take that measureable change in my pulse
and the angle of my eyelids opening 
as if to better hear her needs
and i add them together

and then i make the following modifications 
to exactly determine 
how exactly the reaction to the same sound
is different for you
is stronger for her mother

i multiply my value by the days 
you waited to be pregnant
the days we spent trying to make this tiny human
the minutes you spent at baby showers for your friends
who seemed to get pregnant seamlessly and immediately
and then 100 times points for the days
you carried our kicking baby inside your body

i add 5 to the value 
for each lovenox injection i gave you
in your belly 
every night for over nine months

25 for each injection of progesterone in oil
delivered with an 18 gauge needle 
into the sweet tenderness of your right butt cheek
but i do subtract 5 for the fact that i tenderly rubbed the injection site
as instructed
because i like to think you enjoyed that part

10 for each other required injection
and various indignities
and ultrasounds
and blood draws
and urine samples

30 for each contraction you had 
in the last trimester
and 50 for being able to keep the car on the road
in the middle of the worst that braxton hicks style
had to offer

i include the surface area of your small intestine
the surgeons worked through after the cesarean
to find the kink that Sadie had been yanking on
like a bus stop pull cord
to let you know she wanted out a couple of days early

i use as an exponent the minutes
you fed her from your body
latched and loaded in the nursery
and on the couch with the boppy

i add the times 
you reached across the bed to her nest 
and pulled her over for another nighttime meal
in the months before the nursery

i multiply the currently resulting value by a factor of 3
to account for the 3 big boxes of twin-bed-sized maxi-pads
you had to wear for weeks afterwards 
as Sadie’s old room cleaned itself out of your body

i add the ounces of sweet milk you created
with an extra factor of 5 for those you extracted with suction
with a machine 
at work
at lunchtime
in your office 

i put parentheses around all of the aforementioned items
and then cube that value 
simply because your heart
is that much larger
more capable
and that much more cubicly mooshy than mine

and it is at this point that i know
i could go on forever
adding each thing you did
so perfectly the day before
each day having something different 
to consider into the formula

i hope that the calculation
described it in this tender treatise
can encapsulate all of the future variables
and that i can leave it on its own
as a living proof
multiplying its result
in an eternally exponential cascade

so that now 
i can more completely focus 
on the three 
that we have made 
from two 

handful

when i wake you every morning
you demand something for your hands
you drag your furry pink blanket 
with you from the crib when i pick you up
then set it aside for a small bottle of peppermint oil
and some saline nose spray
from the shelf above your changing table

once you are dressed
you scoot down the hallway stairs
open the hall closet
reaching for your purple jacket 
and your furry polar bear hat
and then your pink knit hat too
and run to the front door
and turn back to me
to see when i am coming

i pause a moment to store this memory
like a parent does
the details overflowing my grasp
and then we go out the door together
hand in hand
adventuring out into the world

edges

- for Melissa

i think of you
every time i butter my toast
thinking of the distinct
and extra love it takes
to spread it all the way
to the edges.

Interspecies

- for Nadia

Of the precious few things

we must believe

transcend the borders

between apes and wolves

this is perhaps the most important

That as our bodies begin to leave us

we can feel the shadows

at the edges of our pack

shift and gather closer

That we sense these shapes

are an extension of the soft safety

of our den

That at our last labored breath

the innermost ring of our fellow animals

will plant their legs firmly in the ground

around our body

that they will tilt their heads

back towards the moon

and begin the chorus of howling tribute

That each successive ring of creatures

will add their echoes to the song

That this song will ring in our ears forever.

on ten years of marriage

it's like putting on an old jacket
you haven't worn in months
and when you stick one of your hands
into one of the pockets
you find a 20 dollar bill 

it would be just like that
except i put that jacket on every day

it would be just like that
except that instead of finding 20 dollars 
in the pocket
every time

i find you
i find the rest of my life

Fuller's 9th Fugue in M

- for my stupendous wife Melissa and her amazing passenger

It opens with a short main theme of unique and unimaginable happiness (incredibly difficult to express in the range of sounds humans can hear, but luckily not limited to that range - ultrasound is used extensively in this fugue, as will come to make more sense later, as it expands on its theme), the subject, which then sounds successively in each voice (after the first voice is finished stating the subject, a second voice of a turnip-sized girl which lives inside your womb repeats the subject at a different pitch, and other voices of friends and family (celebrating that precious little girl) repeat in the same way); when each voice has entered, the exposition is complete and there is no possibility of imagining life existing in any other state than it has exactly at this moment, and simultaneously for the last 9 years. This is often followed by a connecting passage, or episode, developed from previously heard material; generally including subtle melodies expressing the ends of the range of joy that you have brought to your husband’s life. these further "entries" of the subject then are heard in related keys, typically in the same pure sweetness as your singing voice.. Episodes (if applicable) and entries are usually alternated, often including the voices of friends, some of who have been lost in these last 9 years (those lost are represented by the exact melody of their laughter, expressed in the chords and lightness of angel’s wings) until the "final entry" of the subject, by which point the music has returned to the opening key, or tonic of gratitude for you choosing to share your life with this (allegedly) humble man, which is often followed by closing material, the coda, which in this case invokes a very slight variation on the subject, indicating the triple helix winding of the meaning you have provided to your husband’s existence, the contentment it has given to you, and the life inside you that is growing and kicking to provide the tympanic accompaniment so long missing from the arrangement.

This is not a day for glory (rough draft)

This is not a day for glory, even the imaginary kind of glory where you willfully ignore the quasi-woeful material facts of your fitness. This is the kind of day where you self-effacingly call yourself a “badass” just to taunt your legs to dance a bit more lightly on the pedals as you crest the rise at the top of your neighborhood and see the starting edges of the rocky mountains stretching out in front of you. This is not a day for glory; that day was two days ago when you pre-rode stage 4 of the USA Pro Cycling Challenge. That day was when you convinced the spectators who had begun to gather for the KOM in the Garden of the Gods to cheer for you by name as you ground out each increasingly steeper roller, and somehow your name traveled up the climb so each successive group of spectators knew it was you and urged you on, and part of you wanted the KOM to be around the next switchback, and another part was so entranced by the improvisational cheering of the crowd that you didn’t want it to end because you knew it was a purely seminal event, and you wanted to savor it for a few moments longer.

This is not a day for glory, this is a day to let the legs feel the work, and remember how the day before was a day where only the lungs felt the burn. This is a day to let the galactic acid in the quads and glutes and hams float like a lazy river, propelled by the gently oscillating flagella of the mitchondria into tiny and tasty digestible packets.

This is not a day for glory, not a day for the kind of small context glory where you try to move from the top 20% in a strava segment to the top 18%. This is not a day where you pretend to be crushing the soul of your riding buddy as you climb ridge road (when he is actually simply not trying as hard as you are on that particular segment). This is a day where you don’t focus as much on the momentum at the bottom of a perfectly paved roller, but instead carry the momentum in your memory of the day before where you tucked a bit deeper, held the top tube of your frame between your knees a bit tighter, pulled your elbows in under your chest a bit closer, and used only a few quick glancing strokes to crest the next rise after a similar hill, keeping your profile compact, and maximizing your speed down the next short descent.

This is not a day for glory, this is a day where you have enough attention to swerve a half inch around a small iridescent purple and green beetle in your path. It is a day where you don’t yell or gesticulate at the white-haired prius driving lady who nearly right hooks you on her way into the church parking lot, but instead simply shake your head and refocus on the road in front of you.

This is not a day for glory, it is a day for re-assimilating the rides of the last weeks and months, and feel how each of them has founds a place in your muscles, back, neck, instincts, memories, and how all of them have (without any kind of drama or overstatement) have led you to the ride you are on this morning, solo, and reveling in your legs and lungs, and young does watching you spin up the last subdivision hill to the best overlook in the neighborhood. 

This is a day for a unique and silent kind of glory, a self-contained self-satisfaction that you are living the life that you want, and that this life contains so much more than the ride you are on. This glory is the understanding that this morning’s ride has simply allowed you the clarity to fully enjoy everything you have and everything you have experienced this year, and use that clarity to push the window of optimism open wide for the rest of the challenges ahead that have nothing to do with pedals, nothing to do with physical effort, catching a rider ahead of you on a hill by imagining a tractor beam emanating from their rear wheel, the challenges ahead are of a completely different kind of ascent, and the past days of glory are packed away in your soul, and are all the ammunition and fuel that you need.