she sees my Anna.

“Her hands are beautiful. An amazing piece of art. If I could write a book about her hands, I would. But no one would read it. You may have heard it said that a picture is worth a thousand words. But does it go vice-versa? Will a thousand words repaint the picture? I do not know if it can ever be true, but if it is I know that it cannot be just any thousand words. They must be perfect. And without those perfect arrangement of words, the picture is not painted.

I am an artist. But I am not an artist with words. And I am not an artist of reality. I can paint what is beautiful in my mind. But I cannot replicate the beauty of someone else. I cannot replicate what blows my mind.

And if you have not seen those hands, then how can you realize their beauty?

They called her Tubby-tub-tub. Fat little fingers, pale like her American sun. They never darkened, never tanned in her new home. Once, twice, three times, again and again she gave them a chance. Many times she moved. Many times, they grew and slimmed, grew and slimmed, till they became as they are. Long and slender. And pale as the LED that lights her world.

Clean. Dirty. Clean in their dirtiness. Dirty in their cleanliness. Pale like the soap of their scent, dark from the dust she cannot shake. Dust of her home. Karimojong dust. Dust that leaps from the untamed ground, hungry for the sweat on her skin, that swirls about her in a dust devil, the torment of the plains. Dust from the land that seeps into her, affecting her very soul, becoming one with her spirit. And though she washes, it will not leave. It has become hers.

The fingers move like the rain. Quickly, quickly, tiny pin pricks, then faster and harder, devouring the pages she turns, the pen she holds, the keys of the laptop she click-clicks away. clickety-clack clickety-clack. Such a sound cannot suit those hands. Poised over the keyboard like a dancer, first waiting for the music to start their song and then gracefully playing out the words in the notes.

Graceful. They are graceful. Even in their clickety-clacking dustiness, there is nothing that could undermine the elegant gracefulness of those hands. Those beautiful hands. Even with the correct thousand words, who could replicate such beauty?”

Maria Tricarico



volcano ice dancer.

She is dancer

swaying, moving BRIGHT

burning, energy flowing always through her

Oh, child, you will never slow down or stop or focus

you are a sparkler, flying


voice like raw honey and ice

clear, pure, rippling through hallways and doors

smile that cuts straight to the heart and curls up there

dimples wrapping around the strings and playing your mind like you didn’t think it could

inspiration. and then eyes burn into you completely,

icy warm blue, this volcano child stares out at the world below

tangly bracken of hair.

dear anna III

don’t mind me

I just want to be tangled forever in your hair

to lie, silently caressed by your thoughts and words

where i can hear them all

and not miss things because I’m too far away.

where i can see your flying green eyes fall into mine when we understand

you watch me paint, i watch you read

never a judging word or glance

because you know me all the way down to the bone and through the other side

skin and blood connect us tightly

even while we’re forever away and will never be the same because of it

while we meet people the other will never meet.

I’m tired of this!

not hearing you, not seeing you

I think of you

when I don’t understand

when no one laughs

when I see something beautiful

when i see someone with green eyes

when my laugh sounds like yours

and when i breathe.