by Lori Weber
New York won’t
disappoint,
how could it?
It’s got every-
thing, the whole
world in one.
It’ll set them
free, unleash
their young minds.
Experience
is all, nothing
else matters.
Their parents are
scared, I
can see that.
It’s the news
on TV, always
negative.
Focusing on
drugs, shootings
street violence.
What about the
rest—art, music,
poetry?
All the devoted
people, working
for justice?
That’s what I’ll show
these kids, give
them a taste
Of what’s going
on, every day
in New York.
The world needs
hope—these
kids are mine.
Good Intentions
Stacey
I want to be there for her, at least
that’s what I pictured
in my mind,
But when we get here
and she just kind of freezes
against the wall
Like she is having some kind
of panic attack,
her eyes wide,
A spastic smile
glued to her face,
all my good
Intentions fly outside
and I follow them
up the stairs and out the door
Where I find some people to hang with
and drink a few beers and
smoke some joints
And have a good time like
any normal person does
at a party.
At one point, when I have to pee,
I pass her, still glued
to the wall
Like she is waiting for me to return
like I said I would and be
her best friend.
I don’t want to, but I catch the
deer-in-the-headlights look
in her eyes
And it makes me think of my dad
when I came out to bow
at curtain call
And his eyes caught mine, hard,
like the beam of a cop’s
flashlight,
Making me feel like a criminal because
I know he thinks I have stolen
his little girl.
When he smiled, his eyes softening,
it sent a zap right through
my body
Like he’d reached in and stunned
my heart with some kind of
electric rod.
I know he’d want me
to go to Mary and be nice
and rescue her
Because that’s how he always saw me,
as someone who always did
the right thing,
Because up until last year, before that swim
out to the big rock with Paul,
I always did.
Both Things
Annabelle
I’m not really invited
to the party
But I came to look
for Christopher.
I want to tell him
we can do both things,
Workshops and Planetarium:
my thing and his, together.
I was also hoping
to find Mary
But this house is
crazy crowded
And I can’t find
anyone I know
Except Stacey
who is outside
Cracking up
Like a hyena.
I watch her
stumble away
A six-pack
under her arm
And I wonder
if she’s okay.
THE SHAPE
Mark
I’m driving the streets, thinking of crashing
the cast party, except Stacey
will be there, totally
pissed off
At me and the last thing I need is someone
bringing me down when I’m still
feeling pretty
high
From what went on back there, up
in the mountains, my dad’s
key now locked
up safe.
Idling my Mini outside the house, I let
my heart syncopate with the beat
of the music banging
the brick,
And I picture all the stuff going on inside
those walls: the beer, the girls,
the pool, the music,
the fun
But I can’t decide if I want to go in or not. It’s like
my old self is in there, waiting for me
to become the life of the
party
But I don’t know how to take this new self
in there and pick up where I
left off, like nothing
has changed.
Suddenly this shape floats outside, straight
across the yard, caught by the low
beam of my Mini’s
park-lights.
It looks like a ghost, white from head to toe,
and I wonder if it will walk right
through me, like ghosts do
on TV.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spent a whole night alone
in the woods, thinking about my dead
father and hearing his voice
in my head.
It’s made me see things weird, on top of
filling my nails with dirt
and coating my teeth
with moss.
I’m just about to hit the gas and take off when
the shape turns towards me
and I see that it’s
her,
That girl who plays the piano like she’s in a trance
and never talks to anyone except
that do-gooder girl I see
at the mall.
I hear Stacey’s voice in my ear calling her a freak
because that’s how Stacey is, always
running people down with her
fast tongue,
Which is something I used to like about her
because it suited the image
my souped-up Mini
gave me.
Tonight I do something I never thought
I would do: I open the door
and yell at piano girl to
get in.
She’s the last girl I ever thought I’d see in my car
and I don’t even look at her for a while
because I know she won’t
look right.
She’ll be as out of place as I feel
just about everywhere
in the world
right now.
Counterpoint
Rhythmically different but harmonically intertwined
Mary
My fingers tap
a two-beat rhythm,
echoing
in the quiet car.
Mark’s fingers drum
counterpoint,
creating
an odd effect.
I wonder if he’s doing it<
br />
on purpose, to avoid
having
to talk to me,
If he regrets that I’m in the seat
that Stacey usually occupies,
giving
us all the finger.
If I told him what she did to me,
pretending to be nice then
leaving
me on my own,
Would he laugh and call
me pathetic for
being
such a loser?
I’m thinking I should just open
the door and leave,
letting
him off the hook,
When Mark does something
totally unexpected,
making
me wonder
If everything I think about people
is wrong and they’re just
faking
most of the time,
Because next thing I know he
is looking at me sweetly,
asking
me where I live.
Smoking Weed
Stacey
Makes me feel fuzzy,
like I am not
really there
So I can’t really care whether
Mark is with me
or not.
It doesn’t matter because
there’s a cottony
zone
Around me, with no sharp
edges, nothing
brittle
for me to bump against,
or cut me, just
soft space
That I slide into, forgetting
how much so many
things hurt.
Midnight
Mary's Mom
Midnight and it’s the first
time she’s been out
so late and not at
Annabelle’s house.
I’m pacing the floor,
worrying about her
on her own at this party
at a stranger’s house.
Midnight and I’m resisting
waking her dad, sending
him out into the dark
to fetch her back.
Midnight and I’m telling
myself to get a grip,
sooner or later
I’ll have to let her go.
I’m listening for
the slam
of a taxi door
meaning she’s here.
Midnight and a car is pulling
into the driveway,
a guy at the wheel
talking laughing.
I’m hiding
in the curtains, watching
as he leans toward her
still talking.
Midnight and I’m breathing
in fabric dust as she comes
in the door, kicking
off her shoes.
I keep hiding
because I don’t know
what to say as she
hums her way upstairs.
Stacey
Annabelle
She is sitting in the yard, plucking dead grass
into a heap near her feet, mascara
streaking her cheeks.
She starts mumbling stuff about Mark and Mary,
about woods and moons, about
waiting in the Mini.
I’m wondering how I’m going to help her home
when Christopher appears, holding
out his hand.
We walk Stacey around the block three times,
making her gulp the cool air before
climbing her stairs.
At the top, her face clears and she says my name,
drawing out its three syllables like she is
remembering
Something from long ago, like maybe the time
she got a new puppy and we spent hours
playing with it
Or the day she got her first period and was so scared
that her sister would embarrass her by
telling her dad.
That day, we read the school pamphlet on reproduction
together, marvelling at all the changes
our bodies were going through
Deep down
in the most secret
of places.
She looks at Chris, and I wait for her to laugh
or say something mean, but she just nods
and steps inside
Leaving us on the sidewalk, moving close
to fill the space where Stacey’s
body once stood.
Surrender
Stacey
All the lights are off
but they don’t fool me
because I can feel their
baited breath.
I know they’re awake,
lying still in bed,
thinking to catch me
drunk or stoned
Even though they won’t
call me or come out
because they’d rather
keep silent
And pretend, like with
my sister, never
facing her head-on
like parents
In movies do:
yelling and screaming,
demanding answers
from their kids
Instead of hiding
their heads in the sheets
like they’re afraid of
what they’ll see.
What would happen if
I banged and crashed and
stamped my way upstairs
like thunder,
Noises they couldn’t
ignore or pretend
away, forcing them
to emerge
And smell my beer-breath,
see my blood-shot eyes
and deal with me once
and for all?
They might be surprised
by how willing I am
to put myself
in their hands.
THIS GIRL
Mark
I really am going to take her there, this girl
I never spoke to before tonight, this girl
who listened to every word I said about my dad,
who didn’t laugh or make feel crazy,
who told me about Chopin,
whose emotions were as raw as a fresh scrape,
who’s probably never even kissed a guy,
but plays the piano amazingly, this girl
who is so different and doesn’t try to be
someone she isn’t, this girl
who is just herself, in a way I’d like to learn to be,
this girl, whose name is
Mary.
Magnetic
Christopher
Walking home from
the party
we can feel
the city
pulling
us in
like a giant
magnet,
our internal
compasses
set
due south
toward
New York.
I picture Annabelle
as Lady Liberty,
raising
her green
torch high
into the air,
her chin tipped
east toward
the ocean,
looking
forward
&
nbsp; to changing
people’s
lives.
And me?
Will I be like
some poor
immigrant
in the 1920s
looking to her
for
salvation
after a whole day
of gazing
at the sky?
LANDING
Stacey’s Dad
I catch her in mid-step
on the upstairs landing
between our bedrooms.
Her foot is raised, frozen
by the click of our door,
like a fawn’s paw, caught
by the click of a trigger.
I step up to her, my
arms wide, poised
to catch her like she is
still my little girl.
She is surprised
by my gesture, her body
damp and shivering, not
sure whether to stay or go.
We stand like that
in a deadlock, neither
one moving, until a memory
of contact propels me forward.
She doesn’t flinch
when I hug her,
the fight in her melting
away as I stroke her hair,
Her foot finally landing.
What He Did
Stacey
It totally amazes me,
what he did, but why
did it take him so long to do it?
Now I’m wondering, if he’d done
it sooner, to my sister, would she
have stayed home longer?
Maybe she waited months and months
for him to hug her and show her he cared
but nothing happened, so she left.
Maybe, right now, she’s waiting
for him to write or call
and ask her to come home.
Maybe she’s waiting for all of us
to do something like that, to show
her that we know she’s still alive.
I wonder if my mom knew
what my dad was doing while
she was still wrapped up in bed.
Maybe she told him to do it,
because it doesn’t seem like
something he’d just do on his own.
Now, lying on my bed, watching
the night turn light, I can still feel
his big hand stroking my hair
And I can still hear his heart
thumping inside his big chest
next to my right ear.
I wish I could send those two things,
his hand and heart, to my sister
so that she could feel them too.
Simplicita
Simplicity
Mary
I crossed over
