by Lori Weber
Back to
the depot, even though I was only twelve
and barely tall enough to see over the steering
wheel or to reach the gas and brakes, although
it was only two blocks in mid-afternoon so there
weren’t many other cars on the road, and it was so
exciting and I couldn’t wait to brag about it to my
friends at school and every day after that when my mom
wasn’t in sight, I’d beg and beg my dad to take me
Back again.
WHO IS THIS
Christopher's Father
Young
man, suddenly
tall and confident,
singing in the shower,
eager out the door, not held
back, reluctant, like he used to be
to face the world, one shoulder always
slightly behind the other as though he was
hesitating, his chin down, his eyes staring out
from under his bangs, watching, waiting for the shower
of taunts and insults that he was sure would come his way the
minute his foot left the threshold of home, in a way that used to make
me want to run out ahead of him and blast a safe path between our home and
the school, but of course I never could because that is not how fatherhood works?
False
Christopher
I felt stupid in that
Santa hat.
I hated ringing the bell
and luring people over
on false pretences.
I know it’s for a good cause
but it’s Annabelle’s
cause—not mine.
It took me a while
to figure that out
but I know it now.
Some of the guys saw me
and they were laughing
between the double doors.
They were ringing invisible bells,
doubled over, hohoho-ing
and punching each other.
The awful thing was
that I wanted
to join them.
I wanted to rip off the hat
and run inside and be with them,
like old times.
Will Annabelle still want
to be with me if I tell her
I want to stop?
Will she think I’m scum
if she finds out I joined up
just to meet her?
IT MUST HAVE BEEN
Mark
Someone else with Stacey
riding
down the highway
flying
full speed full volume
singing
her hand on his thigh
turning
him on, his right hand
clutching
the shift to keep from
falling
as she stroked higher
pressing
the gas to keep them
zooming
down the road
wanting
to go on that way
forever.
Volante
Taking flight
Mary
Only days to go until the show
and even though I no longer seize up
when I sit at the piano, the thought
of playing to a packed house still
makes my stomach flutter like a bunch
of butterflies, trapped and desperate
for escape, colliding and tumbling, wings breaking,
making every bone in my fingers
shake and my mouth turn dry as dust
until all I can do to quell the fear is picture
the wings becoming whole and the insects
soaring, light and breezy, into the sky
making me feel calm and ready to play.
Adventure
Annabelle
I’m going to New York
whether my Mom likes it
or not.
It’s my turn now to grab
the world by its string
and fly,
To leave this sleepy place behind
and have a real ad-
venture
On streets packed with people:
Times Square, Central Park
Soho.
I want to live in the world of
ideas and action,
sleeves up,
Ready to pitch in, high
on belief and hope
and love.
Mr. Dawe says ideals are
what fuelled his gener-
ation
To protest the war in
Vietnam and gain rights
for Blacks.
He says only certain
people understand
ideals
Because they can’t be bought cheap
and plastic-wrapped at
the mall.
You have to have them inside
you, rooted deep, like
a heart.
He says I’ll be like Alice, falling
through the rabbit hole,
landing
In the Big Apple, eyes
wide, hungry, eager
to bite.
The Big
Christopher
I told her
I want to go
to New York
But not so much to learn
about the evils
of fashion.
I want to visit the
Hayden Planetarium
where the Zeiss Star
Projector can take us back
to the Big Bang,
where it all began.
I picture Annabelle in the evenings
beside me, looking up,
her perfect neck
An archway to the heavens,
where the sun
will swell
And explode
Five billion years
in the future.
But, judging by the way
her face fell
when I confessed to her,
I don’t think
that’s ever
going to happen.
GoingThrough the Motions
Annabelle
I thought he wanted
the same things I want.
I thought we were two minds
thinking one thing:
How the world has got
to change. But it turns out
His mind is fixated on
how the world was made.
The workshop on logos
and how they invade our space
Didn’t turn him on
like I thought it would.
He’d rather study outer space
and the symbols in the sky.
And the workshop on stars
and how they sell brands
Didn’t mean as much to him as
real stars and how they burn.
When we said goodbye, I wondered
if everything between us
Was an illusion, if when Christopher
handed out flyers
He was just going
through the motions
Like someone in a sandwich board
selling hotdogs or pop or fries.
For the first time,
I didn’t want to kiss him.
And when he called me later
I
just let it ring.
ALL AROUND ME
Mark
I feel her all around me
all the time,
her arms like tentacles
her voice, nails on the blackboard.
I used to want her
beside me,
her legs across the stick
shift, pearl white from skirt to boot.
When she turned toward me
they parted and I could see
the dark space between them, as
inviting as that cave my dad once found.
It was inside the mountain, smelling
of damp earth, its floor
a carpet of pine needles
stretching way back into the rock.
We packed tabouli and pita,
chips and Coke,
and spent the day pretending
to be shipwrecked.
We were pirates, marooned
on a desert island far
from home, surviving on
next to nothing, beating the odds
Until my mom came calling,
clashing pots to scare
the bears into the hills,
and made us come home.
Then he carried me across
his shoulders
to the cottage that smelled
of wet wood and smoke
and lay me on the bottom bunk,
so soft I sank
to the floor, dreaming
of marshmallows.
Now, I want that kind of sleep
to take me away,
a thousand leagues away
from my life, far away
from Stacey and my mom and school, all
constantly wanting
things from me that I
cannot give.
Everywhere I turn someone is
expecting,
taking grabbing plucking
at my life.
Can’t they see that I’m like an
empty tank
running on nothing
but fear?
Cuddling Up
Stacey
I’ve decided to focus on the talent show.
Even though I’m no longer
in charge, I’m keen
To pitch in somehow, leave my mark
on as many faces
as possible.
I’m determined to do
Mary’s make-up.
I don’t know why
But driving home the other night,
Mark dark as a demon
beside me,
The only thing that kept me sane
was her song running
through my brain,
Filling the spaces left by Mark’s
wacko walk
into the woods.
He didn’t say one word the whole trip home,
then dropped me off
like a package.
I tiptoed up the creaky stairs,
past my parents’ bedroom,
light but heavy.
I wanted to shout them awake
and tell them how Mark had treated
their daughter.
I pictured myself crawling between
them, burrowing against
their warm bodies
Like I used to when I was sick
or scared awake
by a nasty dream.
But of course I didn’t—couldn’t—
because those kid days
are gone.
Instead, I crawled into bed
and nestled deep between
the sheets, nothing
But the moon for comfort
as I cried myself
to sleep.
RUST
Mark
I’m going back to check out the key, to see
if the earth has swallowed it, pulled it into
the soil that was as mushy as quicksand.
I’m bringing some plastic wrap to cover it
before putting it back, to coat it and protect it
so that it won’t turn to rust.
That’s what’s bugging me, the thought
of the shiny key turning orangey-brown
then flaking away in bits and pieces.
I’ve been wondering how long it would take
for a brass key to decompose. That’s not
something we learned at school because they
Only teach us useless stuff, like the symbols
for elements, not stuff we need to know like whether
oxidization takes place inside the earth.
I want this key to stay shiny and new
so that I can come back here when I’m older,
like someone on an archaeological dig,
Looking for clues of some long lost
civilization, only in this case it would be
the civilization of my father.
I’m going to stay all night, like I’m on a field trip
or maybe even two nights if that’s how long it takes
to make sure I’m doing things right this time.
This could be one of those strange initiation rituals
where boys go into the woods and build huts
and talk to the stars or hunt wild boars,
Or maybe a vision quest, where guys hang out
in the trees and wait for a voice to speak to them
telling them what to do and who they’ll be.
My voice would be my father’s, its soft tone
and hard accent mixing me up, telling me to pull
myself together, just like he used to.
Gravity
Christopher
For months I did her thing
and it was my thing too,
Maybe not as much,
but I believed in it too
Because even before I met her
I thought the world was dumb.
Why can’t she see that there’s more
than one way to look for meaning?
Annabelle thinks words
can change the world
And maybe she’s right,
but does she know
It took only three minutes to create
all the matter there has ever been?
That it took less than a second
for gravity to appear?
That we can still hear the buzz
of cosmic radiation, 90 billion trillion miles away?
I think if people knew
these bigger things
They’d realize it’s crazy
to kill yourself for fashion.
That’s all I was trying to tell her
but she shut me out
Like my opinion wasn’t
as important as hers.
When she turned her face away
from my kiss, it made me feel heavy,
Like a field of gravity
had invaded my limbs.
COURAGE
Mary’s Dad
We say a little prayer
while walking
to the school,
not because we’re hoping
she’ll be a star,
but because we hope
she’ll end the night
feeling good
about her first time on
stage.
It’ll be
a defining moment
in her young life,
one she’ll draw on
whenever she needs
strength or courage,
> and god knows we all
need lots of each
to get through
life.
When she was born
I held her, sweet
pink bundle,
little gush of baby breath
the grip of baby finger,
the tiny delicate bone,
her blue eyes
flickering
and I was instantly in
love.
I hope she’ll
feel us
out there
in the crowd,
sending her
our warmth,
watching her
play the piano
like only we know she
can.
Intrepidezza
Without fear
Mary
Overture, curtains, lights,
This is it, the night of nights . . .
Mostly off-key, we all sing it
together
in a circle
holding hands.
It’s kind of hokey, but
for the first time
in my life
I feel part of
something bigger than me
and my circle
of light in
the basement.
When we yell break a leg
upwards
to the ceiling
to the lights
I can’t believe one of the voices
mingling
with the rest
is mine.
And when Stacey dabs
white on my cheeks
silver on my lids
and on my lips
I can’t believe she doesn’t
sneer
or grunt
with disgust.
And when I wait in the back room that’s
electric
with energy
and excitement
I can’t believe it’s me kids turn to
for advice on hair
or clothes
or courage,
like they’re seeing me as
someone new,
someone even I
don’t recognize
when I look in the full-length mirror
that reflects
this transformed
about-to-perform me.
Mary’s Music
Annabelle
I tell Mr. Dawe I’ll have to leave our booth in the lobby,
with all our pamphlets and cupcakes and cookies,
when Mary is on and he doesn’t say no
because he’s not big
on authority.
Mary comes out, dressed in white, gliding
