by Pat Mora
With gratitude, to my editor,
Nancy Hinkel
CONTENTS
A Note to the Reader
Weird
I Can Dance
Revenge × 3
Doubts
Mirrors
To-do List
Mariachi Fantasy
Fortune Cookie
Back Then
Valentine to Papi
First Time
Hands
The Mission
Grandma’s Joke
Conversation / Conversación
Kissing
Pressure
On the Edge
On Guard
The Silence
Please
Spanish
Broken Home?
Dear__
Dumped
Questions
Old Love
Our Private Rhyme
The Squeeze
Safety
With Feeling
Far Away
Songs
Mundo de agua
Sisters
My Cross-eyed Cat
Three Loves
Love Haiku
Four-Letter Word
Lonely Day
3 a.m. Blues
Secrets
Opposites
You’re Beautiful
Summer Love
Mysterious
Ode to Teachers
Oda a las maestras
My Song
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dear reader,
I love the intensity of the teen years. Friends, family, causes—peace, justice, the environment—matter in new ways. Our emotions are also turned UP, and some days we look at someone and feel dizzy in their eyes.
I began this collection in free verse, poems written without emphasis on counting syllables or stresses. My editor, Nancy Hinkel, suggested that I also try some poetic forms like sonnets or haiku to show my readers the options and challenges that such forms can pose. Although initially writers of any age might frown at forms, once we begin to play with the possibilities, we’re surprised at the interesting results.
The clerihew (KLER-uh-hyoo), for example, a form seldom used, was invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley. A person’s name (often a famous person) is the first line, and using the aabb rhyme pattern, the poem pokes gentle fun at the subject. Since it’s fun to play with a form, I decided to write a clerihew about a very unfamous person: me.
Pat Mora,
una señora, autora, platicadora
so daffy, she thinks words sweet as candy,
so keeps her thesaurus handy.
Good thing I’m bilingual in Spanish since it’s hard to find a rhyme in English for mora, which literally means “mulberry.” Want to try writing a clerihew using your name?
I enjoyed writing these poems for you and hope that you enjoy reading them or using them as duets or for choral reading—or setting them to music. One of the final challenges of a collection is deciding the order for the book. As I reread the poems slowly, I began to think of the book as a piece of music with four movements that we could call a love cycle: from love’s initial rush and confusion, to love’s challenges, heartaches, and quiet sadness; to external solace that eases the pain, necessary healing; and finally, yes, to falling in love again. An important and sustaining love in our lives is hearing and valuing our own unique, internal song.
Pat Mora
JANUARY 2010
Weird
I start to type an e-mail, but
the letters on the screen don’t match
the letters I type. I try again,
stare at the screen,
feel I’m in some weird movie
and the machine is possessed,
has learned to read
my mind
and enjoys watching my confusion,
knows I can’t tell anyone:
my computer and I
have a secret.
They’ll think I’m crazy.
No matter what I do,
the keys type your name.
I Can Dance
I can dance,
moving muscles and knees,
shoulders and hips,
smart as you please.
I can dance,
like the guys on TV,
like the dudes on the street,
feeling free and at ease.
I can dance,
the old and the new,
baby, I’ve got the beat.
Watch my step. It’s a breeze—
in my room alone
with the door closed.
Tercet (TUR-sut, from the Italian, meaning “third”): A three-line stanza or poem, often rhymed. I recast this poem and “Fortune Cookie” in tercets because the number three is emphasized in the poems.
Revenge × 3
I slipped a note to three—
the same note—Romeo me,
experienced at poetry.
All three were sweetly pretty.
Each read my words, smiled slyly.
I felt clever and happy.
My life would be a movie—
calls to make, hands to hold lightly,
poems to write nightly.
But one day, three came frowning toward me,
no hint of beauty. Running, I yelled loudly,
“Your frowns will make you ugly!”
Each crowned me—not that lightly.
“Rat!” they shouted, pounding fiercely,
shouted-pounded, “Triple-header!” furiously.
Doubts
What if guys think I can’t kiss because I can think?
What if I ask her out and she laughs?
Why are all the guys I know so short?
Why do girls like those handsome fakes
with fast cars and fat wallets?
Can I eat less and less until I’m transparent and shine?
Why do their eyes squint when we speak Russian?
Do boys really imagine all of us without clothes?
What if no one wants to touch me because I’m too fat?
Why do they start whispering about me when I walk by?
When I dance, why do my feet get stuck, as if music
is a foreign language?
Does anyone care about the real me?
Does my breath smell like a fish tank?
Why don’t they like him just because he’s Muslim?
What if the way I kiss is dull, like oatmeal?
Why do adults say, “What do you know about love?”
Why is my dog the only one who really understands me?
How does it feel to be married?
Why do my parents kiss in public?
If I sing better than she does, why don’t I get up there and sing?
Why do teachers all think I’m dumb as a garbage can?
What will it feel like living far away in a dorm
with strangers?
What if, when I leave,
I crumple
by myself?
Mirrors
Grandma makes me mad.
“You’re beautiful. Tan linda,”
when I’m studying my face,
boring as old bread,
my wide waist,
“Tan linda,”
my hard-to-hide hips,
my too-flat chest,
my eyes that won’t open wide
and round like my sister’s,
that hypnotize guys.
“Tan linda.”
What does Grandma see?
List poem: A poetic form that catalogs items.
To-do List
On Friday, I’ll shove all my
books into my locker. At the click of the lock, I’ll smile.
I’ll ride the bus, smiling at all the people who drive me crazy, and drive them a bit crazy too.
At home, I’ll crank up the music until the walls vibrate and make myself a giant sandwich, three-cheese—cheddar, Swiss, and pepper Jack—and mustard, mayo, lettuce, more cheddar, pickles. I’ll fill the biggest bowl in the house with chips.
If anyone speaks to me, I’ll signal that I can’t hear, while I eat all the chips by myself, smiling.
At night, I’ll laugh with my friends as we eat our big-as-the-table pizza—black olive, sausage, pepperoni, cheese.
Saturday, I’ll sleep as late as I want. If anyone frowns, I will point to my To-do List.
A man of leisure, I’ll take a walk and nod at everyone I see, since my books are safe in my locker. I will also nod at any dogs I meet.
When my friends come over, I’ll sit at my drums and bang rhythms that will stop freeway traffic throughout the city. Without needing to talk, our band will play original songs that recording labels will covet.
I’ll open a letter from some anonymous donor who sends 10 ten-dollar bills.
At the mall, cute girls will embarrass us with their endless flirting, especially with me.
Sunday will be a repeat of Saturday except no letter, of course, but Mom will surprise me with stacks of my favorite foods: tacos, burgers, fries, chocolate chip cookies, 3 gallons of ice cream. My To-do List says that I may not share—except with my friends.
No. This is not some lame dream. I’m a list maker, and I know a sensible list when I see one.
Mariachi Fantasy
This afternoon I saw a shiny cholla,
its spines glistening in the sunset,
and I thought of us.
Small and skinny, the cactus
looked like a mariachi
in tight clothes, big charro hat,
head thrown back,
singing
letting all his inside feelings
rip
out into the desert
like I’d like to do.
I wondered if his girlfriend,
a nearby cholla looking shy,
like you,
was listening,
pretending not to,
a smile tickling
the edges of her lips.
Fortune Cookie
“Be original,” Dad always says.
So how do I ask Libby out—originally?
Clever but secret.
“Want to help?” my sisters ask.
“We’re making fortune cookies.”
For once, fortunate to have sisters.
Guarding my secret, I write
my question three times to be safe,
hide the paper slips.
We roll and cut dough.
Three times, secretly, I put my question
in the center of a circle.
I fold the dough,
brush it with water,
dip it into colored sugar.
The next day, I toss one by Libby’s sandwich.
She breaks the cookie open, laughs,
“Very clever.”
“Very original,” I say.
“Call me,” she says, her mouth
enjoying the sweet pink glitter I taste too.
Back Then
I’d jump on my bike
some afternoons and pedal
by Cecilia’s house,
pedaling faster, faster into the wind,
seeing the ordinary house,
sneaking a look as I sailed by
and feeling excited
that she was inside,
not really hoping she’d look out,
just pedaling by, privately
happy that I was near her,
knowing tomorrow at school, she’d smile
at me, and I’d feel like I’d swallowed
a slice of sun.
Valentine to Papi
I kept looking in the mirror
and touching my grown-up hair.
Remember, Papi, ten years ago?
You smiled when you saw me
wearing a new yellow dress.
I was shining for my cousin’s wedding.
Your smile
lit the room.
Strangers who said they were my aunts,
uncles, great-aunts,
kept squeezing me.
I’d smooth and straighten my dress.
When the romantic music started,
Mami looked at you
and pointed at me.
You looked down
and took my hands,
mine cold, yours warm.
I put my shiny shoes on yours,
and we danced.
Ten years later, in my heart
we still dance
perfectly, Papi.
First Time
Whizz! You jumped and squeezed my arm,
your eyes squinched,
tense with fear
when the loud bark sank its teeth
into your neckas the pickup whizzed by.
We stood there not speaking,
grateful
in the autumn wind
that we were safe,
together.
Maybe the driver thought we were wimps
as he sped by, laughing, mouth open.
Two teens scared of a bark.
I didn’t move.
Your hand warmed mine
for the first time.
Hands
My aunt watches me
watch Billy. Sly, I try
not to stare at his hands.
“To him, you’re just Roger’s little sister.
He can’t see you,” my aunt whispers.
My aunts always say too much.
Why do they think they know
what I’m feeling? I’m me. Not them.
Billy, my brother’s best friend,
the skinny kid
who used to swing me
around, and I’d laugh, feeling free.
I watch Billy’s hands
hold the basketball, and I imagine
my hand in his, my eyes
floating in his brown eyes.
No one has felt like this. Ever.
The Mission
I wake before the alarm
starts its racket.
My English teacher has been saying,
“Homecoming’s in the air.
Whispers here and there.”
I feel the dark
inside and out.
My family’s busy dreaming.
In the garage, I lift the flowers
I hid and run softly towards her house.
A dog barks. Stars fade
as the sun’s rays light the world.
Roofs appear.
Her house sleeps.
I lay the carnations, roses,
and mums on the hood of her car.
I’m Picasso, admiring my work.
Carefully, I place a few stems on the windshield,
trying to get everything perfect,
irresistible.
“Homecoming’s in the air.
Whispers here and there.”
Watching the house, I stand back,
arrange and re-arrange the flowers.
Her mother’s light goes on,
and I duck behind a bush,
take a last look and run
wondering,
now will she go with me
to the dance?
Grandma’s Joke
“Tell me again, Grandma.
Tell me about you and Holland.”
Grandma laughs her sweet-as-pansies laugh
that moves to her shoulders,
and they laugh too.
Her eyes begin their dance.
“Start at the beginning.
You and Grandpa in the elevator.”
Her laugh keeps slipping out.
“I wasn’t that young,
but I was dressed hippie-like,
off to work with my purse and blue scarf.
A man entered the elevator.
We were alone.
We got off on the same floor,
and the next day, it happened again.
My heart floated up with the elevator.
He asked my name.
I didn’t speak much English,
but he started calling. Voilà!
I’d look in the mirror and stare
at my face.
Eventually, he took me to Holland
to meet his family.
They teased us.
Your grandpa’s aunt was blind,
but she liked me to visit her.
She’d feel the white
tablecloth, seeing with her fingers.
