What Is Joy but Small Kindnesses
a golden shovel after “Small Kindnesses” by Danusha Laméris
I panic-rush with my package from my car to the door only
to find that while it’s already 5 o’clock, it’s unlocked. These
post office workers know the jams of our traffic. Brief
openings, strict deadline flexibility, offer moments
of relief, of getting what we need. Grace in the face of
the headlines we endure, the tired smiles we exchange.
Unexpected Intrusions
The driver behind me slams
on their horn—tires screech.
Cars on either side of us aren’t moving.
Artificially frigid air blasts through the vents
but can’t compete with the power of sunbeams
that penetrate the streaked windshield.
Beads of sweat form on tiny hairs at my temples
my eyes squint away the light, my jaw clenches.
My hand tries to block its intensity.
In the gap between my hand and the dusty dashboard
a flash of bright orange and black.
The Monarch swoops,
dives, and dances outside my car
soaks up the sun’s warmth in its delicate wings.
For the butterfly, this traffic jam
is a perfect audience.
Rows of drivers and passengers
held in place to enjoy the show.
My raised hand lowers, the other loosens its grip
on the steering wheel. I release a breath
and the tension in my jaw, sit back
and take in the beauty.
With my dad behind the wheel of the U-Haul and my ‘95 Celica in tow, we headed east for that 1,800-mile trip. One way, for me.
The golden rolling hills beneath the Sierras, cathedrals of redwood groves, and sprinkles of poppies outside our windows gave way to the flat stretches of drought-cracked dirt and saguaro statues of Arizona. And those eventually gave way to spiky agave, red yucca, and clusters of prickly pear cacti sprouting from West Texas soil.
We said little on that three-day trip. The low hum of radio stations coming in and out of our range filled the truck cab air with what neither of us could speak out loud. I buzzed with the excitement of a fresh start—a larger, more youthful city and a grad program with big promises. I avoided thoughts of what faded behind us in those side mirrors.
My dad focused on the road, careful driving, bringing his only daughter—the one who was more like him than any other person in the world—to her new home. A new life, far from the one he’d given her.
I inhaled an easier breath when we entered Hill Country; the dry, dusty air of West Texas replaced with dense trails and parks packed with trees—not as tall as the redwoods I grew up with, but the live oaks, cedar elms, and sycamores told me I’d have enough oxygen in this new home.
Always on a tight budget, we got Wendy’s for dinner that night after we arrived at my new apartment, a wide open space with not enough belongings to fill every corner. With each bite of my cheesy baked potato, I tried to find the words that would never be enough—the thank yous and I’ll miss yous I had collected over every mile he had driven me.
Take Your Wow With You
Otherwise, you might miss the tiny rainbows
bouncing off the dew drops when the morning
sun hits the grass. Or you’ll miss the fence-top debate
between the squirrel and the northern mockingbird
(the bird always wins). You’ll miss the relentless effort
of that earthworm crossing the sidewalk, and the opportunity
to help it with those last few inches—a gentle nudge
with the stem of a fallen maple leaf. You’ll miss the neighbor
who walks three dogs at once, with his don’t-talk-to-me face
above the tangle of leashes, but the dogs’ faces reveal
that he’s bursting with love. If you don’t take your wow
with you, your day will be full of squinting in the too-bright
sun, cursing the annoying squawk of the birds, sidestepping
slimy creatures, and avoiding rude neighbors.
But with your wow at your side,
the world reveals its glow.
Metamorphosis
after “The Addiction Bird” by Agnes Hanying Ong
We march.
In our black suits draped
in black trenchcoats huddled
under black umbrellas, we climb
toward the sky. In the stormy streaks
of twilight, we ascend the mountain.
Our bootsteps create a heartbeat rhythm
that reverberates through the layers
of metamorphic rock.
Reaching the peak, each of us in turn releases
the umbrella and with arms outstretched
we inhale, our skin sprouts feathers, lush onyx.
Our humerus, radius, and ulna bones are hollowed
transform into a shape made for flight.
Wings spread and flap to thrust us into the air
where we again fall in line, with a new rhythm
vibrations permeating the atmosphere.
But you. You are at the end of the line and you choose
another way. Your red umbrella in a sea of black marks
our memories. The blood shed, all that was lost
that we were made to forget.
When you reach the peak, you leap.
You leave the ground behind, you see the path
of all those ahead, and you turn
in the other direction, you find
a new way forward.
First Bet, Not the Last
Once I got my first taste of a win,
it all made sense. The thrill of a risk
being rewarded sparked a thirst for more.
The pavilion rumbled with activity
the first call of the bugler, people in large hats
and jewelry took their seats in the shaded grandstands,
the rest of us, in our running shoes or work boots
stayed down in the free area, closer to the action.
We inhaled the atmosphere of the freshly pressed dirt
on the track, could almost smell the adrenaline
dripping off the jockeys and horses as they gathered
into the starting gate stalls.
And then they were off.
A flash of the announcer’s narration over the speakers,
exchanges of blue, white, black, then red taking the lead,
my winning formation, then someone else’s,
and someone else’s, then mine again.
Tracking numbers and colors and names.
Lady Chrome, Flying Fury, Moral Dilemma.
They ran side-by-side, neck-and-neck.
With a photo finish, the winners were confirmed
and the numbers on my ticket—my first bet—
matched the order of the orange-dot lights
on the tote board. A $3 trifecta bet won me $72.
That cash handed to me with a smile
from the old man at the teller window
was all it took. I was hooked.
Is This a Cheeseburger?
Is it the paradise
I sang about as a child raised by Parrot Heads?
As I near the same age of that pirate, the number
my dad had when I first heard it,
that sweet harmonica wail
still transports me to Margaritaville.
But come Monday, the piles of bills stack
as high as a volcano and remind me
that it might be five o’clock somewhere,
but not here. Not yet.
But this son of a son of a sailor has salt water
running through my veins. The ocean
and changes in latitudes call my name.
Any time the grind becomes too much,
I’m knee deep in taking life too seriously,
I remember the time my child mind
picked exactly the wrong song to memorize
and sing along with in public.
Oh, the flushed faces of my parents as I crooned,
“Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw…”
Best Night of the Year
The moon’s shine off the puddle is my mirror
and my reflection sparks a smile.
The eye makeup is just right. Thick black rings—
how I earned the “bandit” nickname
I’ve come to wear with pride.
My fur-gloves are nice and snug, nails sharpened
to fine points thanks to my strategic tree trunk scratches.
The final touch is my top hat—the only part of my costume
that’s an actual costume. The ticket into the magic of this night.
I snag a soiled grocery bag from the gutter, rinse it in the creek.
With my best posture and biggest smile, I approach the first door.
Witches and cats carved into pumpkins, skeletons crawling out of graves
an inflatable black widow on the lawn—signals this house could be a jackpot.
With my toes crossed for king-size, I fall in line
between a ghost, a vampire, and a Minion.
They side eye me, pull their bulging bags in close.
The lady at the door does a double-take.
But on a night like tonight,
when I open my bag and squeak Trick or Treat
she has no excuse, drops in the easy loot.
The cat knows the rules
about being on counters and tables
but her greatest joy in life
appears to be breaking them
when we aren’t looking.
She leaves traces of evidence
for us to find.
Because butter is better
when left out at room temperature,
the soft yellow stick sits
in its dish on the counter.
The first time we noticed
the strange indentation
in one of the corners,
we thought it might have melted
a little or the other one of us
swiped some toast directly onto it,
too busy to grab a knife.
The second time, we noticed tiny grooves
and remembered the scratchy texture
of our cat’s tongue when she gifts us
an affectionate lick we pretend
to appreciate. Now it’s clear.
She stares us down and her eyes ask
what are you going to do about it?
The answer is nothing.
We know who holds the power
in this house. We have accepted
that we’ll be eating too-cold
unspreadable butter from the fridge.
And every morning, a new dent
will appear in her stick of butter on the counter.
The Search
I roam these woodlands; I know my way.
The scent dusts of ferns and chanterelles guide me;
nose to the ground, yet my chin is lifted.
With focus and presence, there’s always enough.
The scent dusts of ferns and chanterelles guide me.
New sprouts, vines reach for the clouds
with focus and presence. There’s always enough.
The foxglove and pocket mouse attempt to distract
new sprouts. Vines reach for the clouds.
Their effort my reminder to dig beneath the layers,
the foxglove and pocket mouse. Attempt to distract,
signal that the fire-hollowed trunks reveal my fate.
Their effort my reminder. To dig beneath the layers
the monarch’s wing brings me back.
Signal that the fire-hollowed trunks reveal my fate
but as I roam these woodlands, I know my way.
As the Wind
I want to move as freely as the wind blows
across the land. No destination or goal in mind,
no restriction. Just being and going
nowhere and everywhere at once.
I desire to jump over mountains,
skim the surface of churning seas.
Brush through the lacy boughs of pines and cedars
that bend with the touch.
Lift flocks of starlings, guide the shapes
of their whispered murmuration.
Dance through forests and offer a breath
of relief in the weight of a city’s summer heat.
I want to move as the wind—be the wind,
or maybe, in a similar way, with the freedom
of directionless and uncriticised motion
I just want to be.
The first time I took a bite of something from nature, I was nervous. My friend smiled, rubbed the red plum on her shirt, then took a bite. I stabilized myself in the tree, wanting to trust the branches could hold me, and reached up to pluck the sun-haloed fruit in front of me. I followed my friend’s lead, rubbing the light film off on my tie-died T-shirt until the skin shone, an invitation. I tested the plum’s softness, hoping my first bite wouldn’t be too sour, and then dug in. My teeth broke through to the pit, and the pink-yellow flesh filled my mouth. A drop of sweet juice ran down my chin. I chewed before wiping it off with my sleeve. My youth meant I hadn’t yet developed the quick shame that comes with untidiness.
The next time, I hesitated less. My cousins had a kumquat tree in their backyard. I had never heard of that type of citrus, the grape-sized yellow-orange fruit sprouted from the tree too small to climb, but we didn’t need to. We grabbed a few and brought them inside. I peeled the thin fibrous and pocked skin then tasted the inside. It was sour but in a reasonable way.
We decided to make lemonade, assuming that was the best option for sour citrus. We spent about 15 minutes peeling and squeezing until we saw the minuscule results of our labor: just a shallow puddle of liquid in each glass, hardly enough to sip. But I had no regrets. We moved on to play games, pulling down the box for The Game of Life.
A year or two later, I was in my front yard when a friend pointed out that the little purple flowers blooming next to my house were honeysuckle. “Look,” she said, removing the flower from its green holder. She touched the end of it to her tongue and then grinned. I tried it and was quickly rewarded with a drop of honey sweetness, soothing in its natural flavor. I went on to indulge in those tiny snacks each spring up until my mom lost the house.
It’s been too many years since I’ve tasted something I didn’t find at a grocery store or restaurant. I wonder if growing up means we’re guarded. Too nervous or busy to try something new. To trust nature, and to trust kids brave enough to bite into something they found outside, up in a tree, or a patch of flowers on the ground.
Signals
after the image “Alignment II” by John Paul Caponigro
and “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang
The dusty rose sand warms my soles
then my legs as I drop into the waves.
Otherworldly boulders float in front of me,
hover in stillness—in brazen defiance of gravity.
The clouds point as arrows and I know
it can’t be too long before I’m no longer alone here.
I trace my own wavy line
in the sand next to me.
These might be from another planet,
another universe, or something
so much farther and different
from what I could ever imagine.
Light reflections shimmer in the distance.
They’re here. I knew it.
More people are coming
the sounds of their approach
bring threats of ticket sales,
screen-printed tee shirts,
and catchy slogans to describe
this new roadside attraction.
But buzzing weightlessness tells me
this could become so much more
than someone’s next quick buck.
But until then, I wait and try to listen.
A threat? That it’s too late and we’ll soon pay
for all we’ve done—
the burned and razed rainforests, the silence
where golden toads once croaked and dusky seaside sparrows
sang their buzzy songs before
the last one died at Disney from DDT.
A warning? That we’re toward the end?
Or maybe, this is an offering.
A message that we’ve had witnesses—
not judges, out there farther than the farthest star
we’ve never considered.
And they’ve seen our attempts, however small or futile.
Every planted fig, rubber, and cacao tree
intended not for our consumption
but for the beauty of our exchange
of nutrients and oxygen.
They saw every bird feeder filled,
every hand held out in offering,
and every door opened to the unknown.
The ground beneath me rumbles
and the noise of astonished chatter grows
closer from the road.
But the boulders remain unchanged.
I touch the line in the sand.
I think of my own fires and silences held by time
but also the wishes on glowing birthday cakes,
hands held in newfound connection,
graduation caps flying through the air
as a flock of freed starlings.
I add to the line, pushing deeper
into the warmth as each grain slides
away to make room for my creation.
I bend the line, shape it into a circle.
And all the trees and frogs and birds return to us.
The candles are re-lit, hands unclasped,
caps settled back onto heads and breaks
become unbroken anew.
The boulders remain.
I hear the whisper
that maybe I’ve been here before
I’ve never been alone
and I would do it all again.
Blacktop Wilderness
after the image “Cold Sun” by Jeanne Wilkinson
Winter winds wail
through hollowed wasteland.
In cloud-cloaked sunlight
weakened wonder
wilts and withers.
Squint through the blistering white
— the hiss of light.
Choke on the cruelty
of air so chilled.
Nowhere to weep
or weave a new story.
But then a rustle
in the needle-covered branches.
A sparrow’s warble
flutter of feathers
a tiny heart taps its beat.
The boughs part for an exit.
Bursts and bounds. Flight
toward the tower. Seeking
a home for neighboring nests.
This whisper reverberates,
warms each new breath.
Let me heal the wound left by the years
of rusty barbed wire they wound around your torso.
That twisted corset as a backup for when your
stomach muscles were too weak to hold it all in.
I’ll tear at it with my teeth if I have to, making sure
not another tear escapes your eyes for them.
You’re close to the other side, I promise.
Over where the sun glitters in the treetops.
We just need to kick, sprint, scream,
crawl, and drag each other across
that line before the gates close.
Reach deep for the power hidden
just below the buzzing weightlessness
we can witness the magic, when we see it all
live, in color, in the burst of citrus warmth.
We’ll make sure everyone gets the chance to live.
Once you get there, you’ll know there’s no need to return.
We’ll attack that gate, uproot the bars, bend them over
our knees, live like there’s no one trying to keep us down.
In afternoon heat
the mayfly springs free
from its egg.
It embarks on a love quest
creates a family of hundreds.
The family turns the world
into its dancefloor.
Tiny tails flail, reach
toward the sun.
Gray-yellow bodies buzz, celebrate
every golden moment.
Candles burn in blessed joy
for the creature who knows
what matters most.
The average lifespan for mayflies is roughly one day. -National Wildlife Federation
I spent many Saturday mornings of my childhood yard sale hunting with my mom. After I finished my bowl of cereal, we’d hop into her car and drive around the neighborhood, following the trail of cardboard signs.
There were a few ways we’d evaluate each one before deciding to commit. As our car crawled in the street in front of them, we’d scan for how many other cars were there, how many people were browsing the selection, and if anything jumped out as especially exciting. It was mostly clothing we were looking for. The good stuff. Those name-brand or otherwise appealing items that satisfied our hunger for a great deal.
I now look back on that activity as a place where the pressures of our culture of constant consumption intersected with tight budgets. But I also see how the practice of buying used clothing and household items is more sustainable than getting everything new. But at the time, we were just thrifty thrill-seekers.
Finding a like-new pair of Guess jeans that smelled like they had spent more time in a dryer than a garage was like opening a chocolate bar with a golden ticket inside. “These are only a dollar!” My mom would say, holding up a pair of barely worn platform shoes that she knew I had been eyeing on my friends that summer. Her grin was contagious.
Yard sales were a place where one kid’s “trash” turned into my back-to-school outfits. They taught me to get by with less and carry no shame about buying used. They also turned into a meet-your-neighbors activity, as my mom would usually chat with the families hosting the sale. We hosted our fair share of them too, putting ourselves on the other side of the haggling table and metal money box. Many years later, and with too many states between me and my mom, I still can’t help but do a quick scan when I pass by front yards filled with undervalued treasures.
The Patriarchy is Ruining My Teeth The relentless pressure to smile has become so expected that the dentist found potholes in my teeth. Small round dents in the lowers caused by the points of the uppers, but mainly caused by my constantly clenched jaw. From the old man passing on the street instructing my teenage self to smile!, to the murmurs of ‘resting bitch face’ about any woman who lets her mouth fall into anything short of a blissfully ignorant grin. I live under a consistent fear of a slight drop in my chin, making my face look too long, which I believe is the cause for comparisons of women to horses. And of course, there’s the dreaded double chin that could rear its shameful head if I don’t hold it all in the exact angle that seems to be the only acceptable way to present my face. The result is unnatural wear and tear on my molars. I grimace and grind through the jokes, insults, and insistence that “it’s not that bad.” My lips are tired from the decades of demonstrating my worth through my mouth, which should stay closed and always form a gentle upward curve. I want to release it all. Roar, hiss, and scream at anyone who might listen. Scream about how I wish this bruxism were the only consequence of it all.
Sometimes when I hate my body, for its brokenness, its susceptibility to illness, injury, and disease, I go outside. Even if just for a few minutes, even if it’s too hot, or even if I can barely walk. I try to breathe, take in the oxygen gifted by our Texas live oaks more directly than sucking it through our gypsum plaster walls and dust-crusted vents. I look for little signs I’m not alone. A screeching grackle hops on one leg, a half-dried worm struggles on the sunbleached sidewalk until I nudge it into the grass. I wonder if the bare and weed-riddled patches of our lawn will get us an HOA notice, although the lawn looks perfectly happy displaying its imperfections. A few of the large-bloom magnolias have browned edges, and aphids seem to have chewed holes into our neighbors’ magenta roses. All of these blemishes, injuries, and inconsistencies help me release my expectations, accept that life can be a struggle, and know that I’m doing my best. I know that I’m part of the natural world and I’m not alone. Taking a Spring Drive in the Hopefully Not Too Distant Future after Franny Choi You see that field over there? How it flourishes with food and flora? The fire-red turkscaps, orange squash blossoms, and pink evening primroses weren’t there before. The land had been slabbed with cold gray concrete. Thick razor-wire-topped walls enclosed people as punishment. Those on the outside were told that was what safety looked like. In the sweltering Texas summer heat, so thick it smothered, you could drive past it, this same area, and know there were humans baking in that building. At night, if you turned down the radio, you could hear their suffocating cries. You reminded yourself it was for the best, necessary for you to sleep soundly in your air-conditioned home, knowing every scary potential scenario was locked away in that oven. They could never reach you. But when you reached in, those years ago and with all our hands, inside and out, we clawed away at that concrete, our teeth sawed through the steel bars. All of our hands, smooth, callused, burned, or scared, they came together to break something down, but that was just the first step. Together we put in the work and built something new, something that flourishes.
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