written may 2020.
it’s bright, vibrant, leaves on the trees glow a green that makes my heart ache,
for what, though, i have no idea.
white clouds paint the sky like the gods are amateur watercolor artists,
spreading out like they spilled water on the canvas,
and touched the brush wherever their hearts desired.
wind blows my hair like the gods are playing tag, racing, laughing—
or maybe it’s a catbus.
i’ve been thinking about cutting my hair, you know.
shaving it like my dad shaved the grass blades in the backyard yesterday,
leaving only fluffy dandelions on top.
maybe i’ll get a mohawk.
my mother went to school for cosmetology,
used my tito and lolo as demonstrations for her exam,
and has two naked mannequins in our sunroom.
those are for her sewing projects, though,
because of course i got my creativity from her.
i got my looks and passion from my father,
blue eyes, music nerds, we’ve both memorized our favorite movies—
him, the big lebowski. me, mary poppins.
he calls my mother his punk rock girl,
after that dead milkmen song,
and one day i want to find someone
who calls me their punk rock kid.
my mother, a multi-talented craft store worker,
my father, a multi-talented radio station manager,
me, well, i’m still figuring that out.
but right now, on this almost-perfect day in this never-perfect world,
all i have to think about
is the gods-painted watercolor sky,
the gods-blown chilly breeze,
the birds chirping in the waving trees, not knowing they’re in this poem,
my parents and their complicated selves, doing yardwork,
my dog, sunbathing and snoring,
my self, living.