(7) We turn dandelion suns into heads of tufted wishes, then watch them blow away. We know it's never easy— the things we want, made from our labor and the drive to push beyond the moment's reach. I am three when my mother walks with me to a house on Palma street; she has agreed to have conversation drills with Miss A., the music teacher who speaks no English, in exchange for voice lessons for her, solfeggio and piano for me. Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la, her house smells of faded violets and the inside of dusty hatboxes; she herself is a study in modern confusion and old world manners. My mother puts her palms together and holds them lightly against her diaphragm, pulling her voice with the lungs, aiming for at least two octaves higher.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
