that when I was ten
I suddenly jumped off a swing
and said
Why are we here?
I remember that moment—
how I was swinging
and feeling so happy and free
watching the people in the park
all the mothers and fathers and
grandmas and grandpas and
children
going to and fro
but suddenly I felt shivery
alone and apart
dizzy from seeing all those people
and multiplying them by all the people
in all the towns and cities
in the world
and I jumped from the swing
with my urgent question:
Why are we here?
In the park? Max asked.
No! I shouted.
Why are we here
on this earth?
Max scowled at me.
I don’t know, do I?
he said.
Am I supposed to do something
important?
It doesn’t seem enough
to merely take up space
on this planet
in this country
in this state
in this town
in this family.
I know why Max wants to be
a famous athlete
but I do not yet know
what I should be
or
do.
QUESTIONS
When I ask Max why he hates our town
he shrugs
aims his deep gray eyes at me
then turns and sweeps his arm
through the air
as if he has waved it over the whole town
and he says
Too small.
Always the same.
I want to see what is out there—
and he stands on tiptoe
as if he could see over the tops
of the trees
to the rest of the world.
I don’t understand Max.
The town seems huge to me
and never the same
everything changes:
the light, the smells, the sounds
and people coming and going
and growing bigger and older.
When Max says he will open camps
for boys like him
I ask him what kind of boy that is
and he aims his eyes at me again
and keeps them there
and keeps them there
and keeps them there
as he lifts one hand
to remove a leaf from my hair
and he says
Boys with nothing.
And he will not stand still for my reply.
He is already off and running
while I am wondering if I am part
of
the
nothing.
FEARS AND LOVES
My teacher, Mr. Welling, asked us
to make a list of things we fear.
I did not want to do it
my mind would not go there
until Mr. Welling said that after
we made our list of things we fear
we would make a list of things we love.
Things I Fear:
I am afraid of war
of shootings and murders
of other people killing our people
because our people killed their people
because their people killed our people
on and on
until maybe nobody will be left.
I am afraid of dying
and of my family dying
of disappearing
and not knowing
that you have disappeared
or being left alone
with no one to love you.
Things I Love:
I love running
out in the air
smelling the trees and grass
feeling the wind on my face
and the ground on my feet.
I love drawing
because it feels like running
in your mind
and on a blank page
a picture appears
straight out of your mind
a phantom treasure.
I love laughing
and hearing people laugh
because the sound of it
is rolling and free and full.
I love many many things
which sound too sappy
to write about.
Later, I hear others talking about
their fears and loves.
Some fear:
algebra and tests
essays and reports.
I am not good at these things
but I do not fear them
and I wonder if I am wrong.
I wonder if I am supposed to fear them.
Many of them love:
candy and television
weekends and sleeping.
I like these things
but I do not love them
and I wonder if I am supposed to love them
and I wonder if
I have done the assignment wrong
and when I look at my own list
of fears and loves
they seem too big
maybe not what the teacher had in mind
maybe not
but I am feeling stubborn
and so I do not erase them.
PUMPKIN ALIEN
My father speaks to the alien baby
aiming his words
at my mother’s abdomen:
Hell-ooo, pumpkin alien baby
he says
how are you today?
He consults the baby book.
Let’s see, pumpkin alien baby
you are nearly four months old
and you are this big—
he holds his hands
about four inches apart—
and you have fingers and toes
and are sprouting little tooth buds!
My father looks amazed
and my mother smiles
and I try to imagine
how this happens.
How does the alien baby
know how to grow fingers and toes
and little tooth buds?
I run my tongue over my own teeth
smooth and slippery
like polished stones.
I feel the slim space
between the front ones
a narrow doorway
for a sliver of air.
And I think about Grandpa’s teeth
upstairs
in an old jelly jar
on a lace doily
beside his bed.
That night I dream
of an alien pumpkin
round and bright orange
with two rows of white teeth
clacking.
FRIED CHICKEN
Grandpa’s room is next to mine
Annie! he calls. Annie, Annie, Annie!
I rush in
find him sitting in the blue chair.
A piece of paper rests in his lap
a pencil in his hand.
Annie, Annie!
How did I make fried chicken?
I would laugh except he is so earnest
in his question
a frown on his face
his eyes big and wide.
I can’t remember how I made fried chicken!
I touch his hand and
tell him I will ask my mother
and Grandpa says
Hurry!
My mother is in the backyard
snipping the remains of lavender
from a frosted plant.
Smell this
she says
rubbing her fingers against the silvery leaves
and holding them to my nose.
It’s a calming, soothing smell
softer than pine
gentler than roses.
I tell her about Grandpa’s question
and my mother looks puzzled.
She says
But Grandpa made fried chicken
every single week for—for—maybe forty years!
How could he not remember how he made
fried chicken?
She wipes her hands on her jeans
and goes to Grandpa
where she explains exactly how
Grandpa used to make fried chicken
which is exactly how my mother
makes it now.
When she is done explaining
Grandpa says, Again. I want to write it down.
And so my mother repeats the process
and Grandpa writes it all down
and then says
Now how did you make those strawberries?
Strawberries? my mother says.
You know, you had them once
when your mom and I came over
and you were living in the yellow apartment—
But that was ten years ago!
my mother says
sitting on the bed beside
Grandpa’s chair.
Grandpa waves his hand in the air.
They were in a little white bowl
strawberries
all cut up.
They were so good.
How did you make them?
My mother bites her lip.
I think I just cut them up.
I bought some strawberries
and I cut them up
and I put them in that bowl.
Maybe I sprinkled a little sugar on top.
That’s all I did.
Grandpa nods.
Well, they were very good strawberries.
In my parents’ room
I lift the miniature white T-shirt
from the basket that holds
a few little things for the baby.
The shirt seems infinitely small
too small for any living person
and I wonder if the alien baby
can think now
and if it can think
what does it think?
And what did I think
when I was small
and why did I forget?
And what else will I forget
when I grow older?
And if you forget
is it as if
it never happened?
Will none of the things
you saw or thought or dreamed
matter?
I fold the shirt and replace it in the basket
and I race down the steps
and out the door
and leap off the porch
into the chilly air
and run run run
over fallen leaves
yellow and brown
glazed with frost:
crunch, crunch, crunch.
SAVING
As I run past the church
I see Mrs. Cobber
and she calls to me
Annie-banany!
You going to clean my porch today?
Yes, Mrs. Cobber-obber
I’ll be there later
and she salutes me
as I run up the hill.
In the summer, I mow Mrs. Cobber’s lawn
with her old push mower
smelling of rust and oil.
It’s a small lawn
easy to mow
and when you are done
it looks as if you have done
so much more
than walk back and forth
a few times with a little old mower
and Mrs. Cobber is so pleased
with the newly mown lawn.
She acts as if it is the best present
she has received in a long, long time.
In the fall, I rake her leaves
and in the winter tidy the garage
and the back porch
both filled with old creaky things:
benches and chairs and lamps
musty, dusty, and intriguing
(Who sat on this bench? This chair?
Who used this lamp?)
She pays me for these chores
even though my father said
I should do them for free
but Mrs. Cobber insisted
saying that I should save the money
for something special.
I know exactly what I will buy
and I am thinking of this when
I hear
Hey, Annie!
Hey, Max!
and we fall into step thump-thump
beside each other
my feet tingling from the frosted ground
and when we come to the bench
I suddenly feel shy with Max
aware of his long legs and long arms
and his breath floating into the air
and the silence seems full of something
I do not understand
and so I fill up the silence.
I tell him about the chores for Mrs. Cobber
and about the money
I am saving for something special
and I know Max gets paid for working at the diner
so I ask him if he is saving for something special
and he doesn’t even blink
he wiggles his feet and says
Running shoes!
And he tells me he has to have them
for the track meets in the spring
because the coach won’t let him run barefoot
and he has to get them in time
to break them in
and he hopes they work
because he has to win the meets
he has to
and then he tells me
again
for the nine millionth time
that I should join the girls’ team
that I am stupid not to
and what am I afraid of
and I tell him I am not afraid
I do not want to join the team
I like to run by myself
or with Max
and he knows that I am mad
and so he asks me what I am saving for.
I tell him
about the box of charcoal pencils
soft and black as night
and colored pencils
with every pastel color
and the paper
thick and white
on which you can draw
whatever you want
and he nods
as if he understands how much I want
the pencils and paper
and how they are not ordinary ones
but special ones
and I like this about Max
that I do not have to explain
but then as we turn to run back
he says—
as if he cannot help himself—
But you really should join the team
and he takes off very fast
thump-thump, thump-thump
and my heart matches my steps
thump-thump, thump-thump
as I take off after him
forgetting the pencils and paper
and the team I do not want to join
forgetting everything
as I run.
FOOTNOTES
In school we are learning footnotes.1
It made me laugh to hear them called
FOOTnotes.
I pictured little notes on my feet
and could not stop giggling
as Mr. Welling tried to explain
why we needed to do footnotes2
and the exact, correct format
and we had to practice
everything exactly right
with the commas and the colons
in the right place.
He
was very
par-tic-u-lar.
And I liked getting everything
in the right place
and knowing there was a plan
for how to do it right
but then I could not get the footnotes
out of my mind
and started putting them everywhere—
on spelling tests
and on math homework—
and just about everywhere
where I wanted to add a little explanation
(which you do not normally have a chance to do
on tests or homework)
but I am not sure all of my teachers
appreciate the footnotes3
and now I am dreaming
in footnotes
which is a peculiar thing.
I dreamed of running past the barn
and in my head I saw a footnote
which said
Faded red barn
and when I passed the church
I saw a footnote
Old stone church
and on like that
footnotes for every little thing
and when I stopped at the red bench
and looked at the soles of my feet
all the little notes were printed there
in charcoal pencil
and somehow it pleased me
that the notes were there
imprinted on my feet—
footnotes.
THE SKELETON
Heartbeat Page 2
