Poetry by Susan Vespoli

    Taber Andrew Bain CC




Time Travel to 1989 
              ~ A haibun

1989

Flagstaff. I have three kids and short hair with a little bubble of a perm on top. David is 16, with a brand-new driver’s license and a white Mustang he saved up his own money to buy. After one week, he flips it on its roof along the frontage road. He is girl crazy, wears his long brown hair swooped to one side, knows how to snowboard, glues fake fingernails onto his teeth to become a vampire for Halloween.

Adam is six and in first grade. He still carries around his brown teddy bear, Oliver, the one with the worn tag. Kate is one, a slow walker. I buy her a pink tank-like baby buggy so she can hold on and careen around the house. Adam loves to make her laugh, dances around making funny faces until she cracks up. In the backyard, there is a bucket swing on a rope dangling from a redwood play structure that needs to be repainted. Kate twirls in it while he pushes her from behind, both giggling. I sit on the deck watching them, smiling. I have no idea what lies ahead.

2024

Motherhood times three:
one now gray, one now dead, one
still spinning, wobbly.

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Fry’s Food and Drug
             ~an abecedarian

At the grocery store, my daughter is
bent slightly forward, burnt
crispy from the sun. She 
doesn’t hide her teeth this time, arms
encircled in bracelets, fingers in rings.
From some kid, her answer to my, where’d you
get all the jewelry? A khaki backpack
hangs from her shoulders as she shuffles
in on blistered feet, grabs a cart. I am
just-showered, wear lipstick, clean jeans, double-
knotted Keens, purple-peace-sign T-shirt. She
limps along in black Nike canoes,
man-sized on her petite feet. Shoppers and store clerks
notice her, stare, and I wonder if she’ll be kicked
out by management or security
protecting their doors, like I’ve seen at
Q.T., Circle K, Walmart; uniformed guards
refusing entry to unshowered
street people, blocking the money-less
theft risks. And so, I shadow her like a maternal
umbrella, wield a Visa card, meet their cold glares with 
vehement warmth, deflect their gawk
with my jaw-set smile, direct gaze. Don’t
you dare judge her I say with my posture. If you un-
zip her exterior, she will fill this whole store with light.

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Susan Vespoli is a poet who can't seem to stop writing about her adult kids, beloved beings who have taught her so much about powerlessness as well as intense love. Susan Vespoli - Author, Poet.
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