To Run Ahead of Love
A Curse At My Age
I get what you kids can’t find: health. It’s turned a curse at my age;
let’s pray one day you’ll know, to hoard good luck is worse at my age.
Then, sympathetic sap, to see you suffer makes me sick;
can I believe grief shared is somehow less adverse…, at my age?
All strength is weak to run ahead of love, preventing harm;
let me be fond, but just a fool pretends reverse at my age.
I’ll spend my love, I’m rich that way, on you kids and your mother;
still, it’s not possible to empty out care’s purse at my age.
My wallet wears to loving holes; meanwhile, the moth is active.
Faint hope, strong sympathy, what else can I disburse at my age?
As Cute As You
A pocketfuls of buttons wouldn’t be cute as you;
at seventeen months there was no one as destitute as you.
Your breakfast: eggs and toast with oatmeal, pancakes, grits, and milk;
starved chick, no one was quick to slip it down the chute as you.
At six, a wild pony, more galloping than standing still;
and slip-joint tricks no one could so-well execute as you.
So, like a broken heart, by twelve you ached, first less, then more;
few earn as young the fellow-sufferer’s salute as you.
Then we learned diagnostic Latin words for bright and flighty;
books, no, but reading people, no one was astute as you.
Three times the passenger in crashes, once, while standing still;
who makes as clear that genes and fate are in cahoots as you?
Your softened, worn-down vertebrae, grew painful, pinching nerves;
few grasp so well, that character comes from eating bitter fruits, as you.
Your each joint hurt, then you slipped discs; at last, you couldn’t rise to work.
So, meds—who, with just blood, had so much to dilute as you?
You would have kept abortion three, but doctors feared you’d die;
no unwed mother felt as poor in self-repute as you.
Drugs and time and time and drugs, your boyfriends all did both;
who was good at digging up some flawed galoot as you?
Old Nana forecast life would change and deepen in your forties;
now no one’s depth checks out as true, without dispute, as you.
That I had lived a life as worthy of respect as you;
but dread the witch who’d work the change, me substitute as you.
Didi Stayed at Home
Your Maia taught you cooking young, the Didi stayed at home;
then Mai could gossip down the lane, and not delayed at home.
On trains, you kids caught coins for songs your Maia taught you sing:
those trains where Pittaji sold medicines, hand-made at home.
Fever, shaking fever, everyone soon comes to know;
limp sweats, hard chills, of which you’d learned to be afraid at home.
In fever, Mai took Pittaji by rickshaw to some clinic;
while you three village children had to wait, dismayed, at home.
Maia went to visit once; next time, he wasn’t there.
Who knew? Just gone; help skimp to scampy. Pa never strayed at home.
You sang for paisa on the train, for bits and bobs of coin;
so up and down you rode and sang; you had no trade at home.
Your family stopped to work the Delhi crowd at Junction Station;
construction gave Mai work; she spent what she was paid at home.
On station platforms, begging food, you lived on what was left;
Mai left to work construction sites and scarcely laid at home.
Then Mai was killed or kidnapped…, or run from trouble none could bear?
Locked houses, stolen women, not the love-for-money trade at home.
The younger two were used to your command, and clung to you;
you had learned to carry both, when you all stayed at home.
While begging half-pakora left un-eaten, burned chapati,
your hair turned black-to-red; you weighed half what you’d weighed at home.
A platform vendor fed you scraps, and told the station cop;
he took you three to Mother Teresa’s children-mislaid home.
There, you kept your brother and little sister beneath your eye;
never word of Pittaji or Maia relayed home.
In time, two rich, white memsah’bs came to ask the hopeless question:
if you would try new family, in hope old loss would fade at home?
Tight huddled: Kanchi was too young to know, bhaia, barely;
so Didi’s tilted chin must choose, with all afraid, a home.
Dying to Adjust
Our first- and last-born children, you’re both dying to adjust;
here’s something else that fails to work, crying to adjust.
Our eldest could not settle for prosaic rules of gender;
we’re grateful for your daughter, come by trying to adjust.
Your friend forgot, denied, allowed and finally confessed;
mixed-up by love and somethings broken, lying to adjust.
Your wife remains your helpmate, friend and mother of your child;
divorced, your marriage sails past clarifying to adjust.
Not long nor well you fear you’ll love them, and work two jobs, all shifts;
it’s industry’s example you’re supplying to adjust.
Mid-Air, At First
Kwashiorkor! You had to sit on every stair at first.
Not dumb, you checked: “Eat this?” the hot-dog held mid-air at first.
A silver bell, and tiny, elusive as a fairy’s laugh,
though shivering hearts, near shattering glass, its chimes were rare at first.
What an honor just to feed an appetite like that;
Okay, we took the low road to show you that we care, at first.
Maybe four, what could you be expected to recall?
Just that your sister, Didi, always let you share, at first.
Didi, Bhaia, Kanchi: Older Sister, Brother, you;
the extra four of us, you fit who-knows-where at first.
The cold, strange kin, strange talk, new names—learning became your fortress,
books your life-raft, straight A’s walls—safe perch hard chairs at first.
Didi served as second mother, Nan then made your third;
you had plenty of role-models to compare at first.
Here, you’ve adopted, mentored, even fostered dogs and cats,
those that shared with you what delicacy calls despair, at first.
Seen As Once
Though now-days, even you admit you’re not as lean as once;
still, you’ll be first to tell them, you’re as much Marine as once.
You’d learned to take an order, and damn well give one, no offense;
with weight and heft of years, you know, you’re not as mean as once.
Enlistment worked out well for you, and well for Bosnian peace:
by stopping someone’s grandmas’ arsons, their burning rages keen as once.
Back in your teens, before you’d earned your pride, you’d blow-up, angry;
with your temper teased, now, sparks don’t flare between as once.
I know just how the father of a prodigal must feel--
grateful, after raveled time, your face is seen as once.
I get what you kids can’t find: health. It’s turned a curse at my age;
let’s pray one day you’ll know, to hoard good luck is worse at my age.
Then, sympathetic sap, to see you suffer makes me sick;
can I believe grief shared is somehow less adverse…, at my age?
All strength is weak to run ahead of love, preventing harm;
let me be fond, but just a fool pretends reverse at my age.
I’ll spend my love, I’m rich that way, on you kids and your mother;
still, it’s not possible to empty out care’s purse at my age.
My wallet wears to loving holes; meanwhile, the moth is active.
Faint hope, strong sympathy, what else can I disburse at my age?
As Cute As You
A pocketfuls of buttons wouldn’t be cute as you;
at seventeen months there was no one as destitute as you.
Your breakfast: eggs and toast with oatmeal, pancakes, grits, and milk;
starved chick, no one was quick to slip it down the chute as you.
At six, a wild pony, more galloping than standing still;
and slip-joint tricks no one could so-well execute as you.
So, like a broken heart, by twelve you ached, first less, then more;
few earn as young the fellow-sufferer’s salute as you.
Then we learned diagnostic Latin words for bright and flighty;
books, no, but reading people, no one was astute as you.
Three times the passenger in crashes, once, while standing still;
who makes as clear that genes and fate are in cahoots as you?
Your softened, worn-down vertebrae, grew painful, pinching nerves;
few grasp so well, that character comes from eating bitter fruits, as you.
Your each joint hurt, then you slipped discs; at last, you couldn’t rise to work.
So, meds—who, with just blood, had so much to dilute as you?
You would have kept abortion three, but doctors feared you’d die;
no unwed mother felt as poor in self-repute as you.
Drugs and time and time and drugs, your boyfriends all did both;
who was good at digging up some flawed galoot as you?
Old Nana forecast life would change and deepen in your forties;
now no one’s depth checks out as true, without dispute, as you.
That I had lived a life as worthy of respect as you;
but dread the witch who’d work the change, me substitute as you.
Didi Stayed at Home
Your Maia taught you cooking young, the Didi stayed at home;
then Mai could gossip down the lane, and not delayed at home.
On trains, you kids caught coins for songs your Maia taught you sing:
those trains where Pittaji sold medicines, hand-made at home.
Fever, shaking fever, everyone soon comes to know;
limp sweats, hard chills, of which you’d learned to be afraid at home.
In fever, Mai took Pittaji by rickshaw to some clinic;
while you three village children had to wait, dismayed, at home.
Maia went to visit once; next time, he wasn’t there.
Who knew? Just gone; help skimp to scampy. Pa never strayed at home.
You sang for paisa on the train, for bits and bobs of coin;
so up and down you rode and sang; you had no trade at home.
Your family stopped to work the Delhi crowd at Junction Station;
construction gave Mai work; she spent what she was paid at home.
On station platforms, begging food, you lived on what was left;
Mai left to work construction sites and scarcely laid at home.
Then Mai was killed or kidnapped…, or run from trouble none could bear?
Locked houses, stolen women, not the love-for-money trade at home.
The younger two were used to your command, and clung to you;
you had learned to carry both, when you all stayed at home.
While begging half-pakora left un-eaten, burned chapati,
your hair turned black-to-red; you weighed half what you’d weighed at home.
A platform vendor fed you scraps, and told the station cop;
he took you three to Mother Teresa’s children-mislaid home.
There, you kept your brother and little sister beneath your eye;
never word of Pittaji or Maia relayed home.
In time, two rich, white memsah’bs came to ask the hopeless question:
if you would try new family, in hope old loss would fade at home?
Tight huddled: Kanchi was too young to know, bhaia, barely;
so Didi’s tilted chin must choose, with all afraid, a home.
Dying to Adjust
Our first- and last-born children, you’re both dying to adjust;
here’s something else that fails to work, crying to adjust.
Our eldest could not settle for prosaic rules of gender;
we’re grateful for your daughter, come by trying to adjust.
Your friend forgot, denied, allowed and finally confessed;
mixed-up by love and somethings broken, lying to adjust.
Your wife remains your helpmate, friend and mother of your child;
divorced, your marriage sails past clarifying to adjust.
Not long nor well you fear you’ll love them, and work two jobs, all shifts;
it’s industry’s example you’re supplying to adjust.
Mid-Air, At First
Kwashiorkor! You had to sit on every stair at first.
Not dumb, you checked: “Eat this?” the hot-dog held mid-air at first.
A silver bell, and tiny, elusive as a fairy’s laugh,
though shivering hearts, near shattering glass, its chimes were rare at first.
What an honor just to feed an appetite like that;
Okay, we took the low road to show you that we care, at first.
Maybe four, what could you be expected to recall?
Just that your sister, Didi, always let you share, at first.
Didi, Bhaia, Kanchi: Older Sister, Brother, you;
the extra four of us, you fit who-knows-where at first.
The cold, strange kin, strange talk, new names—learning became your fortress,
books your life-raft, straight A’s walls—safe perch hard chairs at first.
Didi served as second mother, Nan then made your third;
you had plenty of role-models to compare at first.
Here, you’ve adopted, mentored, even fostered dogs and cats,
those that shared with you what delicacy calls despair, at first.
Seen As Once
Though now-days, even you admit you’re not as lean as once;
still, you’ll be first to tell them, you’re as much Marine as once.
You’d learned to take an order, and damn well give one, no offense;
with weight and heft of years, you know, you’re not as mean as once.
Enlistment worked out well for you, and well for Bosnian peace:
by stopping someone’s grandmas’ arsons, their burning rages keen as once.
Back in your teens, before you’d earned your pride, you’d blow-up, angry;
with your temper teased, now, sparks don’t flare between as once.
I know just how the father of a prodigal must feel--
grateful, after raveled time, your face is seen as once.