by Meg Kearney
Can’t you see all
its secrets tearing you apart?
Toss me that silver key,
let your life start
again, let me set you free . . .” Now
I am frozen on this
bench—by her voice,
by those words I know are a song
by Fly, brought on by our
conversation—
so why is my head in a swirl
like I’m in Penn Station
at rush hour?
Late Sunday Morning Surprise
Nothing like a boy at the door
to make a girl suddenly care
what she looks like. Rhett’s
still in her torn Ziggy T-Bone
T-shirt and sweats; at least
I’m wearing jeans and one
of Dad’s flannel shirts. Rhett’s
been teasing me about Tim,
making me laugh ’til it hurts—
since he and I agreed to see
other people, she says, I should
do it (starting with Calvin C.),
stop acting like a nun, and nuns
by the way shave their heads,
and no way will I cut off this mess
of curly locks, much less get out
of bed at 3 a.m. each day to pray. . .
then there’s the knock at our door,
Sam Paris’s voice saying he’s
the computer repair man. Like
a cat, Rhett springs to her feet,
pounces on her purse, flings some
dirty socks under the bed, swishes
on blush and lipstick, yelling
“Wish you’d called first!” then
unlocks the door with a flourish,
practically taking a bow as Sam
strolls in. This whole production
has so wowed me I’ve forgotten
to look in the mirror myself. Now
it’s too late. “Morning, ladies,”
Sam says, handing us each a mug
of coffee. “You’re a prince,” Rhett
says as Sam claims her desk chair.
Sam does look like royalty to me,
though his tarnished gold hair
is mussed up. “Thank my roommate
for leaving behind his French press
over break,” says Sam. I take a sip—
This’ll put hair on your chest, Dad
would have joked. “We were just
talking about Calvin,” Rhett tells
Sam, sneaking a peek at me. Sam,
half listening as he reads the spines
of books piled on Rhett’s desk, just
says, “Yeah?” Not to be discouraged,
Rhett goes on, “He and Liz have
a lot in common.” I feel my right
eyebrow rise. “Like what?” I ask.
Sam looks up, suddenly engaged.
Rhett stares at me, red glasses almost
twinkling. “Smoke’s rising from your
ears, you’re thinking so hard,” I tease.
Sam snickers. Rhett peers thoughtfully
into her mug, says, “You both like old
fogie music, for one. Like what that
woman plays in the park. Our parents’
music.” I lay my mug on the floor,
sit on Rhett’s rug. “Right, or what?”
she pushes. Sam comes to my rescue.
“Speaking of music,” he says, “come
hear Minds of Snow—tickets are
cheap! Tonight. In Dumbo.” Rhett
says yes as I rise to my feet and
surprise, surprise, say thanks, but no.
Taking Kate to Hear Guitar Woman
Passing under the arch from Washington
Square North is always sort of magical—
I enter the park sensing something special
will happen. Today, I’ve asked Kate to come
see my dorm, listen to Guitar Woman
if she’s here. “Is there some subliminal
message—I sense this has the potential
to be about something more than a social
visit,” Kate says. Her thick brown hair is cut
short now that she’s head chef at a bistro
called Downtown. I explain I’m just a fan—
then we’re close and Ms. R’s playing, so
I shut up. I watch Kate’s face. “I know what
you mean,” she says. “Her voice is like Gram’s.”
Journal Entry #2176
Kate’s as practical as an umbrella on a rainy day. She wouldn’t stay long to listen to Ms. R (who was singing THE song), but instead wanted to head to my room so she’d have time to meet Rhett and look around before heading to work.
Still, some of the words to that song Ms. R was singing have now become an ear worm—can’t get them out of my head:
Thought I saw you through a window
one April—there by the gold trees—
turned out you were me.
The wind blows
as though a mother-ghost.
I was still sea-borne
and you were my coast.
“Mother-ghost.” Does that mean the mother is dead? Just missing? Kate wasn’t sure, but she did know it’s a song called “When You Never Said Goodbye” by Jessica Rose Hemley. It was a hit when Kate was a freshman in high school.
Kate also said Goddard is one of the nicest dorms she’s ever been in—she could see now why I’m in heaven here.
She and Rhett liked each other right away, especially once they realized they’re both “foodies.” Who knew Rhett watches as many cooking shows as my sister? If they went on about “R.W. Quinn, Master Chef” one more minute, I was going to have to order a pizza.
Kate didn’t make a big deal out of Guitar Woman—I was just relieved that when we reached the park, Ms. R had a crowd around her. Kate could see it wasn’t just me—lots of people think she’s good. And I wasn’t implying anything beyond that. What did Kate mean by “subliminal”? She’s always reading underneath things; she’s an emotional metal detector. Maybe that’s why I didn’t mention that I plan to call The Foundling soon. She supports my search, but I didn’t want to get into another discussion about my reunion fantasies and how I’m always setting myself up for disappointment.
It’s so strange, though: I didn’t remember how Gram used to sing to us until Kate mentioned it. Gram did have a great voice. That was so long ago! Gram and Mom often sang together. I can remember them harmonizing “New York, New York,” kicking up their feet in our living room like the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes.
I haven’t heard Mom sing since Dad died, except in church. And that was more of a whisper.
Winter Collage of Days in
Washington Square Park
Man wearing a moose suit tells me I’m cute;
jazz band lifts its brass to the smudge of sun, plays
“Nobody Knows Me Better than You”
Troupe of hip-hoppers somersault and flip
for tips to the beat of “Mr. Incognito”
(they’ve cleared a square of snow for this)
Cocker Spaniel takes its woman for a walk
while she chatters like a squirrel on her phone
(I should talk, the way I can blabber)
Two brown boys run toward the fountain (winter
still, like a painting), pull off their coats. Their mother
shouts, “William! Ephraim! Bill!”
(Savory smell wafts from the roasted cashew cart)
A couple kiss under the arch. “Miss!” they call, “Take our picture?”
“That squirrel lady’s whacked,” says a man walking by to the woman
clutching his arm. “Too warm, but it smells like snow,” she replies.
Two squirrels eye her as if she’s a snack
In her long, black wool coat, black boots, and black skull cap
R Woman rests a gu
itar on her lap. Cup of coffee steams
on the bench beside her
A middle-aged guy in an old Army jacket sets a square of cardboard
on a marble bench, then sits on it to read the Daily News. He crosses
his legs, reveals snake-skin shoes
Little girl, hair in cornrows with blue and white beads
clutches a thick stump of electric-pink chalk. “Chalk is
for summertime,” her father coos
Journal Entry #2177
People think poems that are funny either dishonor the art of poetry (“like posing for a photo next to Michaelangelo’s ‘David’ statue,” says Prof. R, “holding your hat over his private parts”) or they’re just fluff. Professor R’s idea seems to be that there are plenty of good, funny poems out there that at the same time are serious and/or say something important. They can make us think, mostly through irony and satire.
There is this old (dead) poet named Theodore Roethke, whose poems I really like. His poem called “Dinky” is hysterical, especially as Prof. R reads it. Sort of a fairy tale, the poem is perfect for little kids. “Dirty Dinky” is a trickster figure, like a leprechaun who casts spells. I thought it was just a nonsense poem, but it turns out it could also be making a dark political statement. Who knew?
Speaking of spells, in class today I mentioned Lucille Clifton’s “homage to my hips.” My face burned, voice shook, but I recited: “these hips are mighty hips. / these hips are magic hips. / I have known them / to put a spell on a man and / spin him like a top!”
I’ve been trying to write a funny poem myself. It’s harder than I thought. But all this poetry stuff is difficult. That’s part of the draw—how I lose myself, lose track of time, lose the sense of where I’m sitting, even—as I try to put “best words in the best order,” as poet Stephen Dobyns says in his craft book. I keep thinking, keep believing, that if I work hard enough . . . someday, I’ll write the kind of poems students study in school.
As Winter Term Nears Its End . . .
“Look who he’s with,” whispers Rhett
as we wander into the cafeteria. “That
Louise is a leech.” She’s not my favorite
person, either, but I’m not bummed
when Rhett leads us over to Louise
and Sam’s table since it’s by the window,
meaning views of the park and beyond.
Sam looks relieved to see us, but Louise
looks like she just drank sour milk.
“We’re already finished,” says Louise
as we sit down. Rhett ignores her, looks
at Sam. “I’m famished.” Louise grabs
her empty mug, flits away for more tea
(no way is she not staying). “Well, she’s
a snot, as usual,” says Rhett. How can
they all sit here and not stare at the park,
all dusted in white from last night’s
snow? “Calvin’s back,” says Sam, who
seems to have noticed me gazing out
the window. “Oh!” Rhett exclaims,
“We’ll have to throw a party!”
Did Louise miss the “P” word? Nope.
Already back with her tea, she fakes
enthusiasm. “Good idea!” Rhett’s
cheeks match Sam’s tomato soup.
“You three spread the word,” he says.
“I’ll make sure the lounge is free.”
Journal Entry #2178
“The term ‘famous poet’ is a misnomer,” said Prof. R, “like ‘jumbo shrimp’.” It seemed right to end class with everyone laughing. Still, that quote keeps bumping around in my head like a bee caught on a screened-in porch. Really—how many people can name a single poet besides Robert Frost? Okay, so maybe I won’t be famous. I just want my poems to be read by more than my family and best friends. [Prof. R was quoting a poet named William Mathews; must look up his work. And oh! How surprised and happy he looked when I asked him to sign my copy of Redemption Arcade!]
Prof. James spent our final class comparing Alice Munro with Flannery O’Connor, saying Munro was inspired by O’Connor. Everyone seemed to be nodding as Prof. James said things like, “Where O’Connor’s characters seek ‘grace’ as a gift from God, Munro’s characters have a secular vision . . . ” Am I the only ignorant one in the room who hasn’t read Flannery O’Connor?! Have I spent too much time reading poetry, not enough reading fiction?!
Anyway, Alice Munro’s stories aren’t what I’d call “action-packed,” even though there are murders and near-murders, drownings and near-drownings. It’s all done so quietly. But somehow she pulls you in . . . and there’s usually a spooky sense that things aren’t going to end well. How does she do that? That’s what we writers need to study, need to figure out so we can use similar techniques in our own work, says Prof. James. Got to learn how to “read like a writer.”
REMINDER: my story’s not written by Alice Munro. No more waiting around, hoping to hear from a registry that they’ve found a “match.” This is the time for action. Going to the NYPL was like walking into a brick wall. Time to make the call. (Please, God, let my story have a happy ending . . .)
Journal Entry #2179
Appt. with Sophie Fedorowicz
The New York Foundling
Friday, 2 p.m.
So, I did it. I called The Foundling. The social worker who sent me my non-identifying information, Sophie Fedorowicz, seemed to remember me, my “case.” She was super nice. My stomach cramps pretty much disappeared as we talked.
Tim thinks Jan and Jade should go with me, but my instincts tell me this time I need to go alone. He finally agreed—“You’ll wear your charm, as always . . . I guess that’s enough.”
I’ll tell Kate before I go on Friday. Mom and Bob. . . not sure.
I feel as if I’m about to go skydiving—the plane is in the air; I’m standing at the threshold of an open door, and now I have to jump. Now I have to trust my parachute will open when I do.
Lounge Party to Celebrate
End of Winter Term, Start of Spring
Snowflakes and daisies dangle
from the ceiling; little white
lights frame the room. Aroma
of brownies and sugar cookies
soon wafts past my nose as Henri
slips by with a plate. “Those
don’t look like Fig Newtons,”
a boy with an afro jokes. Henri
blows a kiss his way. I’m glad
she doesn’t hear him say, “She’s
a little fortune cookie! So good
to be back.” The party’s in full
swing. I should be mingling
like Rhett, who looks stunning
in her gray suede boots, black
tights, short black skirt and gray
sweater. I should be laughing
like Louise, who I admit looks
hot in her tight purple dress,
red hair falling past her hips.
I should be flirting with Calvin,
who is handsome, African
American with stylish gold-
framed glasses and GQ clothes.
I should be meeting all these
people now back for spring
term—Rhett introduced me
to Josh and Fern; through them
I met a girl whose name I forget.
I learn the boy with the afro
is Daryl but goes by Dizzy, turn
to see Sam put his arm around
Rhett. I should take a picture
with my phone, should do so
many things besides drone on
and on in my head, Lizzie, act
happy. . . stop thinking about
The Foundling. “Liz!” I hear
Rhett call as I side-step toward
the door. “Come have a drink!”
But I ignore her, slide into the
too-bright light of the hall.
Journal
Entry #2180
Snow on the first day of spring term apparently means everyone heads to Bobst, the nicest and biggest library I’ve ever seen next to the NYPL. If the NYPL is a marble palace from the 19th century, then Bobst is a shining glass and brick tower of the 20th. My idea was to head straight from my first class (creative writing workshop) and grab a seat near a window so I could spend some time getting my head around this semester’s workload and look out at the park at the same time. Fifty other people had the same idea. But it’s warm, and Goddard is close—getting back won’t be so hard, though I might be wishing I’d brought my snowshoes.
Spring courses: Writing 2; Cultural Foundations 2 (liberal studies—literature); Social Foundations 2 (philosophy); Creative Writing Workshop: Intro to Fiction & Poetry. Also: Intermediate Spanish.
It felt as if someone had pricked me with a pin when I sat down in workshop. The desk-chairs were arranged in a circle. Louise was right across from me. We spent a lot of energy not looking at each other. I’m much more talkative than she is, and have no idea what to expect from her poems or stories.
Professor Aguero with her wild gray curls is easy-going but totally focused. She has us reading like crazy—“Writers read,” she says, pacing around the outer circle of our desks as if she’s playing Duck Duck Goose. Thanks to her, today I “discovered” Major Jackson and Aracelis Girmay. WOW WOW.
Next week we start bringing in our own work, too. I’m curious about writing some fiction, but Professor Aguero says I can mainly focus on poems if that’s my “inclination.”
“Focus.” It’s hard to focus on anything for long, except Friday and The Foundling.
_______
My idea of heaven: the spring reading series. I’m so psyched, I could kiss my student ID card.
Rhett’s Post-Party Blues,
