Epiphany at the Marriott 
 

cold gray light
hesitating around heavy curtains
a mother’s eternal questions
rumble in half sleep

dreamy awareness
of young ones strewn in repose
on beds and floor
oblivious to winter’s chill

murmurings and sighs
a child awakens
joy crackles through bird-like limbs
outstretched to father’s gentle embrace

excited whispers
of planned action
where sneakers and pajamas
readily suffice

father and son
venture out
an unknown place
dawn’s adventure and promise

Remains
(An Adoption Fails)

Is this what grief looks like?
me, who never does windows,
scraping and shining and buffing furiously
absently
meaninglessly
the large glass doors that overlook the backyard?

While my out-of-body self,
moving with numb efficiency,
rehearses the words I’ll deliver
dry eyed
broken hearted
to my unsuspecting children,

And my practical self
plans to throw away the basketball lying outside
scuffed
forlorn
emblazoned in permanent marker
with what was meant to be her new name.

                        María from West Hartford 
                           (By Way of Guatemala)

                        Many years ago
                        when you spent the bulk of your days
                        in a shabby wooden crib
                        in a starkly antiseptic room
                        in the company of other similarly kept babies
                        in similarly worn cribs 
                        when your cries were sometimes answered
                        and sometimes not
                        when everyone and no one was “Mamá”
                        there were those who questioned your capacity to thrive.

                        But a thousand miles later
                        they didn’t see you leap from your dad’s startled lap
                        and run full-throttle
                        toward the edge of the room
                        daring your slight body to defy gravity
                        and scale the wall
                        (just like the man in the commercial)
                        then pick yourself up 
                        and give it one more shot.

                        And they didn’t listen 
                        as you barked like a dog
                        on the phone that night
                        explaining later you thought it was your brother
                        (disguising his voice and trying to fool you)
                        and not your dad’s old colleague
                        who’d never had children
                        and who certainly had never been barked at before
                        at least never on the phone.

                        Nor perhaps did they ever feel you wrap your wiry arms
                        exuding love and joy
                        and endless energy
                        around their tired necks 
                        at the end of an unforgiving day
                        with the strength 
                        and softness
                        and singularity
                        of the first snowflake
                        of a New England winter.

        Santiago With My Daughter   
 
 
We climb the hill
         first a lurching taxi
                      grinding its gears around sharp curves
                                   belching past the knowing locals who pant
                                                and plod walking, jogging, biking

We continue on foot
         steeply cracked concrete steps
                     tilting crazily
                                   sprouting wildflowers
                                                overhung with untamed trees and shrubs