Two Poems by Karina Young

November sun ignites
lavender clouds,
giants
gathered for rain.

Now, for a poem,
the welding of words
into song.

How can I work
when your eyes prick me
with liquid amber?

Ten days
after a sprained toe,
I can walk again.

I put on my jacket,
grab a plastic bag

your tail, a dance,

hook the leash
to your collar,

your dance, a poem.

Carlota

Bracelets, earrings, belts
jingle jangle back and forth
as you paint lavender lilies
or a childhood Maine farmhouse,
pointillize African elephants and giraffes,
or strum the nylon strings
of your Martin guitar.
You belt out “This Land is Your Land. . .”
or “Black is the Color
of My True Love’s Hair”
in your Odetta voice,
strangely resonant
for a white woman.

At four years old,
while Eric and Suzanne
languish in school,
and Dad serves
the Phoenix Water Department,
I have your magician’s ways to myself.

I peruse the Paul Klee
and Marc Chagall books
we borrowed from the library,
my mouth agape,
while you create art
out of the thinness
of the desert air,
spinning circles and triangles
in green, blue, and red,
tiny miracles out of the void.

Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”
and Edvard Grieg’s “Morning Mood”
blare through the trailer.
I rock so hard
I move the plush chair
across the musty shag-carpeted floor,
no easy thing
for a petite tomboy
the size of a song.

Later in the afternoon,
before the others come home
and I have to share you,
“La Boheme” shakes
the aluminum foundation
to the core.
Tears burn your cheek.
I too taste sour salt in my mouth,
not fully understanding why
but beholding the wizardry
of you,
my mother.

Karina Young