by Lori Weber
Their schooling has ended,
the whole balloon
of their childhood pierced
and emptied in a flash
by a sewing machine needle
so that people like Stacey
can buy skinny jeans
that cling to their bony hips.
Glad He Didn’t See It
Mark's Mom
Your father would be rolling
over in his grave
if he could see the way
you are turning out,
hanging out with kids
who are allowed to stay
out all night long
and never open a book.
Your last report card
a long row of D’s and F’s
with comments like
lacks motivation
not trying
shows disrespect.
It almost made me glad your father
didn’t have to see it. His
face would have fallen,
the lines around his mouth
grown tighter and deeper.
All those years of driving
a cab to the airport,
fighting traffic,
hauling bags,
so you could get
the education he missed
out on back in Lebanon
because his family
had to flee the war
when he was fifteen.
And now this yellow car,
your constant companion,
a new girl every month
her head hanging out the window
like a gargoyle,
flashing a pretty smile
at the world.
What does her mother think?
Does she know her daughter
is out till all hours
driving around
god knows where
doing god knows what?
And, if she does, is she
as scared as me?
OMEN
Mark
My dad thought he would always have
good luck.
That’s because, when he was a kid,
a bomb
Landed on the roof of his apartment
building
But didn’t explode. It simply sat there,
ticking.
His friend, who climbed up, said it looked like a
creature,
A black bird of death that sent everyone
scrambling
Into the streets and throwing stuff down from
windows.
My dad didn’t see it as death, but as an
omen
That he was somehow protected,
special.
I think it just took death a long time to
find him.
Ordinary
Annabelle
I don’t want to be ordinary.
You see ordinary people everywhere:
at the grocery store, loading their carts,
looking tired, checking the prices,
shuffling along like zombies.
Or where my mom and I have breakfast
every Sunday. We always get the waitress
with frizzy hair and she always asks the same thing,
Sunny-side-up or over-easy.
I wonder what her life is like:
does she have talents
she didn’t nurture
or did she always dream
of waiting on tables
at the Greek deli
where bloated pickles
float in humongous jars?
When I ask my mom
she tells me not to be a snob,
then she shakes her head at me
like she can’t figure out why
I wonder about such stupid things.
I think she forgets what it’s like
to worry about your future
and ponder what kind of life
you might have one day
when you have no talent
and when you’re an idiot,
because you can’t walk past
a lounge just because
your ex-best friend is there
on the other side, inside
a group you were both in awe of
just last year.
Mr. Dawe says I have a talent
for organizing people
and motivating them
to take action.
But can I make a future out of that?
Agitato
Agitated, with excitement
Mary
In my basement, I like to shine
the reading lamp down
on my piano, but keep the rest
of the room dark.
That way I can pretend I’m
anywhere—La Scala,
Carnegie Hall, Covent Garden,
the great music halls of the world.
But in this auditorium
the bright lights trap me
at the out-of-tune piano.
My mom bribed me
with a trip to New York
to see Angela Hewitt,
who has magical hands.
They had to roll the piano out
from behind a mountain of props
on three squeaky wheels, the
dust sheet trailing behind like a veil.
I’m on right after some dancers,
so the smell of sweat and powder
lingers on stage, along with the thump
thump thump of their music, dark
like bats caught in the rafters.
My hands hover like hummingbirds
over the keys, my eyes
on the string of black dots,
my foot a brick, poised
above the pedals.
Slowly, I enter the music,
blocking out the stage and its
dusty shadows, where the judges’ faces
are tipped toward me
Until my music is all there is,
floating, cascading,
circling back into itself,
loopy as a butterfly,
red and gold.
Even the third-floor crowd
is hushed, pulled in,
just like my teacher said
they would be.
No one, he said, can resist
the lure of Chopin,
not even the kids
of your generation.
Could he be right?
Love Poem
Christopher
I wrote her a poem
and slipped it in
her pocket
at the meeting
to plan
the next
protest.
I wasn’t sure if I’d
go back, but how
else can I get close
to Annabelle?
I hope she finds it
(or not, both
options are scary)
because it took me
hours and hours
to compose.
You make me feel
tall in a small world
loud in the silence
bright in the dark
simply by your presence
which is warm rain
on my parched soul
But I didn’t
have the nerve
to sign it.
There’s no way
she’ll think
o
f me first.
She’ll scan
our faces
at the mall,
seeking
clues.
If I send her
the right one,
a wink
a nod
a smile,
she’ll know.
But then I might
have to watch
her face fall
in dis
appoint
ment.
It’s a Good Thing
Stacey
If my parents knew how late
I stayed out last night,
they’d flip.
When we crossed
the bridge back into town
the sun was already rising,
lighting up the tops
of tall buildings
like candles.
Earlier, Mark parked
by a lake and we watched
the water grow dark
as the sun set.
It grew so black
I couldn’t tell
where land ended
and water
began.
Mark didn’t budge,
didn’t say a word
for hours, just kept
staring straight
ahead, like he was
waiting for something
to emerge from the lake.
I knew to just sit silently
beside him because
when Mark gets quiet
it turns all sound
into noise, like
everything around
him has to shut
off, including
me.
It’s a good thing
I know that because
that’s what Mark likes
about me, the fact that
I know what to do—
how to be pretty
and wait until he’s ready
to notice me.
If my parents knew
how late we came home
they’d kill me.
It’s a good thing
they sleep
so deeply
and fall for
the jumble
of blankets
I lay out
to make it seem
like I’m at home,
sleeping
deeply
too.
Stacey’s Sister’s Diary
Annabelle
I was at Stacey’s when her sister
came home and announced
she was engaged to this guy
her parents hadn’t even met.
Her mom put down the pot
she was scrubbing
and dried her hands
on the dish towel slowly.
Her dad put down his paper,
(I think it was the first time
I ever saw his whole face)
and leaned forward in his chair.
The kitchen was completely silent,
except for the hum of the fridge
and the drip of the tap
and five noses breathing.
Stacey kicked me gently
under the table
and I kicked back
because we both knew
What her sister, only eighteen,
had been up to: she laid
it all out in graphic detail
in the diary we could open with a pin.
We knew her sister had been doing it
for months in John’s father’s car,
parked behind some warehouses,
her left foot braced on the gear shift.
They’d done it on the hill behind the arena,
her back jabbing against
some rocks, John’s socks
vanishing in the stream beside them.
And they’d found an abandoned mattress
in a lane downtown and fooled around
like a couple of alley cats, scratching
their skin on loose coils.
We read the pages over and over,
curled up under the covers,
our flashlight burning the paper,
giggling and gagging.
And now they were going to get married
and turn into a respectable couple
who’d shop for end tables
and a matching double bed.
That’s it for the diaries, Stacey said.
In nine months I’ll be an aunt,
my sister will be fat,
and I’ll have to try to look at John
Without turning beet red
because in my head
I’ll be seeing them at it
in all those weird places.
But Stacey’s sister didn’t marry John
or have a baby. She moved out
west instead, with another guy,
taking her diary with her.
I wonder if Stacey’s doing those things
now with Mark, parked
on some dead end street,
scrunched up inside the Mini.
Does she think of her sister’s words
and try to copy her moves,
or is she so in love
her mind is blank?
And does she ever think of me
reading those pages with her,
burying our screams
in her pillows?
HIS LAST THOUGHT OF ME
Mark
Driving out, getting away,
ribbons of highway
beneath my wheels,
is the only way I feel
real these days.
It’s like my Mini and I have morphed,
like those transformer toys
I used to play with,
twisting joints
to turn hulky heroes
into mean machines.
My dad used to say he wished
he could fold up his cab
that way and become a big
strong man, with blades
for fingers, exhaust blasting
out of his heels, speeding
him away from the concrete
he spent his life driving on.
He always talked about Lebanon,
its white Mediterranean beaches,
twisty cedars and ancient ruins,
as if nothing here could compete,
not even me.
He was always comparing
me to my cousins in Beirut,
top of their classes
buckling down, busy
as beavers, building
futures, not
Out having fun
going to parties
dating girls
playing games
making money
flipping burgers.
Sometimes I wonder
if his last thought
was of me, yelling
at him to leave me
the fuck alone.
You Don’t Know
Stacey's Mom
Of course I hear you coming in
at all hours, even after
the sun has already
risen.
I can hear the front door click
shut, no matter how softly
you close it. The click is like
a crack of thunder in my brain
And those creaks on the stairs,
as you tiptoe up, are like
deep cracks opening in a quake.
One day, Stacey, the earth will open up
beneath you and swallow you whole,
But what would I have to do
to stop you?
Lock you in your room, tie
you up, kick you out
so that the world will swallow you
even sooner?
Your father’s heart is still broken
from your sister’s succession of guys
who lured her so far away.
He pretends he doesn’t hear you
come in—that way he doesn’t have to
deal with you, so I go along, asking
if you had a good sleep when I know
it was only two hours long, or if you’re not
feeling well when I know your eyes
are dark and puffy from lack of rest.
It’s the car that scares me most.
I’ve seen the way your boyfriend drives,
zipping in and out like the rules of the road
don’t apply to him.
When I watch you leave I think how it’s my daughter
he is hauling, my own flesh and blood,
who kept me up countless nights
watching her fight her fevers,
feeding her medicine, chicken soup, and hugs,
for what?
To watch her throw
her life away?
Sotto Voce
In an undertone
Mary
The list is out
and I am in.
Now there’s no
turning back:
Rehearsals Tuesdays and Thursdays
3:30 - 6:00 sharp.
I’ll be there, but
maybe not sharp.
Sharp is for extroverts
and stage lovers.
Sharp is for people who can
crack up in public
Or talk to strangers
full volume, brazen,
Not sotto voce,
like me.
Make-up
Stacey
I always knew I’d do it one day.
It’s something I’m good at, maybe
because of all the time I spent
letting my older sister make me up.
She’d practice on me, like I was
one of those giant-sized doll heads
that come with mini lipsticks and shadow.
She’d make me look ten years older
or, on dark days, like I’d been punched
around the eyes, the lids so blue.
I’m already thinking about what I’ll do
for different people, how I’ll make
their faces look like they’re lit up
From the inside, like I’m a magician
who can flick a switch inside a dull person’s
skull, turning them bright.
