Four haircuts (and a ray of sunshine)

I wish I'd taken a picture of our commingled hair on the floor of the local Supercuts this afternoon.

Baby A: Straight, silky, brown.
Li'l A: Tough, spiky, black.
Big A: Stubby, gray, blond.
Me: Wavy, dry, brown.

I did, however, manage to get a picture of our single ray of sunshine for the day:

 Grow, Jasmine, grow!

Searchlight

Scarred star.
So this one,
sun don't shine.

Hopes migrate
mate, we're missing
insane details here

light undulance warmth.
Alright. Why don't you
come on over to my house.

Holy
so ordinary. Come in.
All is--or will be--forgiven.

_

Happy Birthday Li'l A!

Li'l A racing-rolling across the bed. That bed.

There are moments when I'd like time to stand perfectly still. 

We gotta be starting something...

Part Two of Li'l A's birthday weekend, dinner with the grandparents. And as the kids chose to ride with the grandparents, Big A and I had a few minutes to angst.

It's recurring guilt about our lifestyle. Big A had a very sick patient and it made him feel weird about practicing medicine for money. We're not thinking of unpaid medical school debt, incomplete kids' college funds. We just want to get a smaller house. Live more ethically. Quite apropos for today--May Day.

But will it happen? Or will we go ahead and get new wood floors and furniture for the rec room as we'd planned to? 

Four Parties

Can Maya do it?

Party #1: 5:00 p.m. for my favorite two-year-old twins. Bring presents. Get in my fill of baby smells and nom nom on a few. Check.

Party #2: 6:30 p.m. get Li'l A's Birthday-sleepover started. Pizza, I-phone cupcakes, buckets of juice boxes, snacks, candy. Party games lined up. Check.

Party #3: 7:30 p.m. Bestie L's birthday. Bring prezzies. Slice cheese, serve Sangria. Say Hi's all around. Hugs goodbye. Check.

Party #4: 8:00 p.m. Get on the "party bus" for dinner and pub hopping in the Oregon district. Nope. Duh. (Have to chaperone Li'l A's sleepover as Big A leaves for work in an hour.)

Three out of four is considered good in most circles. And a warm, sunny day--a nice way to say goodbye to the rainiest April in my memory.

_

Yoga

Breath
thrown outside
bequeathed to us
peace.


swarm music
rest sharp
in the flush
of stillness

_

The Grammar of End Times

[ANOTHER SAD, CRAP DRAFT. It's very frustrating that I can't write about this without sounding like a catechism.]

Worlds are separate
suspended, discrete.
Take count, make them
account--they seldom
cohere, cannot agree.

One world expects children
making laughter, worries,
afternoon weed bouquets.
Love. Loveliness.
Sports car (import).
University tags. Online shopping.
Flowers, phone calls, food.
Need new wood floors.
Another bathroom.
Home sweet
home improvement.

In another world, a child (more ribs than years)
and a buzzard guards her, waits for her to die.
(What else to say--for this part,
lacking everything,
also lacks words.)

Sages, madmen who care,
decide that worlds do not share:
the same sentence--or any other space
the sages have died alone, and madmen
too, many by their own bourgie hands

And that young self who
starved, carved wrists--
she mutely floats in my veins--
rude. But just as any other chained
and stubborn corpse would.

_