I wish I could eat a rainbow, Mommy.
I would grab it in my fingers and slurp it
like spaghetti, rainbow juices
dripping down my chin.
What would it taste like?, I asked her with a smile.
It would taste like clouds and sunshine
and mist and M&M’s,
lemonade and cherry with strawberries and whipped cream.
It would taste like flowers and the green of spring–
maybe for you the purple would taste like wine, but not for me–
for me it would taste like grape popsicle.
It would be very filling. My belly would be full from eating that rainbow.
I wish I could eat a rainbow too, I said.
You can, Mommy! There’s one for you, grab it quick before it flies away!
And so I closed my eyes and reached up,
pulled the rainbow to my lips,
and tasted a miracle.
You are now three and my struggle is rushing ,
remembering to hold on to your tiny words,
pulsing between my daydreams of pressing thoughts
and the image of your silly faces
in the rearview mirror.
You make me laugh,
sing along sweetly to the radio, tell me a story
about how Winnie the Pooh dies and then goes to jail.
I am supposed to drive, steer, pay attention to the road
stay between the yellow lines,
and make enough money to fill this damn tank–
not to mention all those dishes in the sink at home.
I try to fit it all into this drive to school, so afraid to lose or fail,
and when we arrive, when you flit from the car
and float, fairy-like, to the curb
you are not looking forward,
only into this moment, the blossomed petals on the concrete.
Your eyes sparkle up towards mine and quick as a wink you
wave your hand into the pile of ivory petals, fling them into the air
so they drift in the breeze and swirl back to the ground.
My heart rips open like a seed
who knows spring is here, right now,
and we are her daughters.