This House

Yes, it’s stupid, but I wanted this to be the house

To go to for Thanksgiving when I’m 30,

After all, this is the house where I slept with boys for the first time,

In those platonic fumbling moments during “co-ed” sleepovers,

And told horror stories on a creaky bed at 3 AM.

This is the house where I told my first crush that I liked him,

In the unjudging darkness of my pink-walled room,

The eyes of wooden dolls looking down benevolently

At my hopeful, hopeless six-year-old self.

This, the house whose nooks and crannies I knew

Like the curves of the handle of my suitcase,

Where I could fling the door open after getting home on a red-eye flight

And pad across the hall in a millisecond flat to jump on my twin bed.

The floor in the entranceway is a black-and-white chessboard,

And it occurs to me when I walk on it with sockless feet

That there’s no other place where cold marble is so welcoming.

I’ve come back so many times, that I can ride the curve of the freeway winding into this city

in my dreams, and I do.

This is the house whose green walls were Base when we played tag,

We played out in this backyard with mud and hands and knees,

Used sticks and bandanas for Capture the Flag games where

No one knew the rules. We took prisoners without asking

And when we won, we yelped from one wooden deck

Across to the other, then went inside for watermelon slices bigger than our heads

laughing at the sticky juice,

as if the raindrops that go missing from Seattle in the summertime,

dripping down our cheeks onto these granite kitchen floors like a baptism.

Flooby or Fly

I wrote this in response to a challenge from my friend to use the imaginary word "flooby," so here goes...

            LaRousse took a guess, that he was floobier than fly,

            but the crowd met his bet with derision; they cry,

            “LaRousse! Don’t do it, you’re throwing away

            your money, our goodwill, hear what we say—

            you’re fly more than flooby, trust our advice,

            instead of taking this guess and a roll at the dice!”

            Yet LaRousse said, “I’m flooby,” with a chin set so firm

            that his mother winced and his father sat stern,

            as he stepped up to the table, took a swig from his flask,

            and threw down a card without stopping to ask.

            “What says it?” screamed the people, all bending to look,

            and a glance at the “f-l-o” was all that it took,

            They cheered him, he beckoned for drinks to be brought,

            “On the house!” said a barmaid, hefting a draught,

            and the naysayers said they’d been jesting, for sure,

            they knew he was flooby, just been trying to lure

            him away from the bet that was right.

            And LaRousse hides the floobies he’s carried all night.

"teach your girl" - a new poem

teach your girl

Teach your girl to jump fences and her world will know no boundaries,

teach her to sneak out in the dead of the night with no fear of the bogeymen who have never tried to hurt her, but give her the strength to kick them as hard as she can in the groin on the off chance that they do. Teach her to run until her legs can’t carry her anymore, and when that happens, to walk a little further. Teach her to walk like she owns the ground when she steps on it instead of apologizing for the air she breathes—
teach her to dance on fallen trees that make bridges in the woods as if her hiking boots were ballet shoes, because bird calls and wind-whispers make music too. Teach her that no matter what anyone says falling off cliffs isn’t the worst thing in the world, not climbing in the first place is. And if she can’t reach the final foothold lift her up on your shoulders the way you do on the Fourth of July, and teach her that shortness need never be weakness when you can stand on the shoulders of giants. Teach her to dig in the backyard for hidden treasure and make booby traps like the kid in Home Alone, take prisoners in Capture the Flag and use mud for war paint on her cheeks. Teach her to wear a seatbelt, yes, but teach her too how to do 110 on the open road, whooping as you feel up big sky country with a steering wheel and tires. Teach her that setting fires is about more than making s’mores, and when the night comes, the fire flickers, and you hear her take off for the woods without you, you’ll know you’ve taught her well—because the world is this girl’s oyster, as much as it was ever any boy’s.