Works of verse
Still water runs deep
Enough undertow to drown you
In invisible tides that at a glance seem so kind.
Children play in a haven of family strength
Unknowing, they charge across the dirty sand
Like soldiers with a war to wage.
Determination set in the eyes of one spring treasure
Sure that this time, she’ll reach the bottom
Even if she drowns,
She’ll be the first to find it.
The faint blue smog of a conglomerate sky
celebrates.
Another Victory is won for the Big Boss.
Clone voices of all shapes and
sizes rally hard for
the Senseless Slaughter.
Born of false pretense and
the great American Dream.
The caddy stowaway
And no one knew your name
The sandy foldaway
A kiss of dewdrop swing
Jazz-rataz and glitz of fame
Dummy up or be wasted
Raz-bataz and let that brass play
Until the blues turn faded
Reserved and not disturbed
A cigarette chews your silhouette
Piano percussion soul to fold
And trombones to play grass roulette
Fumble da raz, I wish you’d spoken
Dance, cat, dance
Fritz la blitz, we were holding
Trance, man, fence
The lost river boy
And no one knew your name
Bayou fever toy
Have a mosquito Christmas
Dame the game to ambiance
You were so alone, there
Lame and drab to conceive
Lost but always found, there
To the graffiti stowaway
I always knew your name
To the rickety river boy
Your beat was stronger than your fame
You’re alone now, so smoke on the water
The humidity will steal away the pain
You can’t get tired now, so walk on further
It wouldn’t be worth it without the pain
And the jazz man slipped again
He catches the “no” as it tumbles from my mouth
Shoves it back into my throat
I’m choking
Vodka
He is made of granite, of marble: Stonehenge
Stone-boy makes the floor swallow me
Tears
I descend from Irish Chieftains
Recite Shakespeare
Love Vivaldi
It doesn’t matter
My head pounds on the bathroom door
And he hurts me
And hurts me
And hurts me
Blood
I am a child of rape, now I am its slave
I leave my life in the shower drain
I throw up and he laughs
Piercing
Two hours of solitude
I cry as I look for my pants
He took my cigarettes, too
I am not my own
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and
there they are—Diamonds, throned
upon a golden stud, glitter beneath
chandelier over red carpet, illuminate the
mesmeric azul of her irises, scintillate
supplication O lord look over here,
O my, how lovely you are tonight, dear.
I never knew you were so beautiful. Diamonds.
Diamonds are girl’s best friend, and
there they are—eighteen carat diamond
studded bronze/gold bracelet on
Home Shopping Network. Slouched,
faded blue velvet, glimmer/shimmer under
studio glare. Thousands of women all over the world
sigh with bored envy at $239.99
that tightwad husbands would never spend on them. Diamonds.
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and
there they are—earth-dusted diamonds
wheelbarrowed out from the yawn of crepuscular chasms
in South Africa, to be cleaned and sorted
by sooted, callused palms, rough
from handling heavy stones. The sun
hammers merciless rays upon strong backs
lifting sacks of jewels into thundering trucks. Diamonds.
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and
there they are—diamond stippled
petroleum probe masticates the
somber depths of everything forgotten. Diamond
molars grind the unfathomable recesses
beneath our feet for blackness to inject unsanitary
needles into the pulse of the world. Diamond jowls
swirl the earth around in their mouth, spit into
sink. Diamonds.
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and
there they are—murky, embryonic diamond’s
swelling umbilical cord one deep mile
beneath the infinitesimal womb of
the world. They are restless,
one day they shall grow strong
and white, and kick themselves up
to the surface, stillborn, screaming, smiling, eager
to please. Diamonds.
Shimmering, flowing tinsel heavily drapes the small tree, filling the big holes in the sides where it had been held, or tied down.
Brilliantly colored bulbs give silly, fun-house–mirror reflections of red, yellow, green, and blue.
Little toy soldiers and sugarplum fairies dangle fancifully from green, prickly branches.
It stands as an array of colors.
And atop, a beautiful porcelain angel stares down upon the room, gorgeous and strong.
What a proud sight.
Would a fetus still want to be
born if he
knew that one day
he would go to see a movie
instead of a sunset,
Could he
still be forced alive
from his watery cocoon
if he
somehow foresaw one day
he is wasting away
behind traffic lights,
Would he spit back out his first breath
if he
knew about acid rain
and how plastic grocery bags
blanket trees outside of town
like first snow,
Yes he would. He wants to make
the world his own: a better place.
Somewhere without want, without waste.
Sans hatred, less haste.
He will be,
as Ghandi wrote,
the change that he
wants to see
in the world.
Begin with screaming
wrinkled fist unfurled.
and he came down from high
and surveyed his lands
wiping a bit of sand out of his eye
from his ten-thousand–year nap
things had changed
since he had last seen this world,
he noted sadly.
the beat of wardrums grew ever stronger
as he watched
the women covering the eyes of their children
but not their trigger fingers
and heard the incessant refrain of
god will protect us
god is on our side
and we will be victorious
as bombs rained from the skies
like wish-seeds from a dandelion
he wondered where he had gone wrong
he climbed back on high
sighing heavily
and once again, closed his eyes
and weighted them down with sandbags
in preparation for ten thousand years more.
with a crystal tear tracing down his wizened face
Peace wondered how he’d been so forsaken.
He becomes fierce
under the constant glare
of his enemy.
He has been given
a bad name
and no advantages.
Highlighted is his bloodstream.
It sticks.
Everywhere he goes, it rapidly follows.
His misconstrued thoughts
make much sense.
His words make no sense at all.
He becomes a dried flower,
pressed between my yearbook pages.
A blank sheet is placed in front of me. I stare at it.
Somewhere through the fog of exhaustion I hear a voice say over the sound system, “Here’s a blank sheet of paper. Write yourself a letter. Write about your summer: what you learned or maybe a favorite memory. Fold the letter and put it in an envelope addressed to you, but don’t seal it. We will put a group picture in the envelope with the letter and send it to you later in the year.”
There is a rustling all around me. The others sit hunched over the festively decorated tables and begin writing.
My hand reverently traces the edges of the blank sheet of paper.
Paper.
Blank paper. Not photocopied pieces of paper filled with lists of names of campers, counselors, and cabins. Not crumpled pieces of paper covered with scrawl reminding me to order ice-cream for the snack shop. It’s a piece of paper as empty as my gaze, and as fresh as I was at the beginning of the summer. I tentatively pick up the pen emblazoned with the camp logo. It has been so long since I was allowed the time to fill a piece of paper with myself. I’ve forgotten how. If I had the energy, I would cry. Cry for myself. Cry for the words which used to come so easily and are now so elusive. Cry for the despair I feel because I have to be here when I don’t want to be. But I’m too tired to cry or feel sad, so I let the pen’s point rest at the top of the glaring white sheet.
There was the voice. Not the one over the sound system, but the one inside me. Hello? She says, Hello? Can you hear me?
“Time’s up, guys. Finish your letters and meanwhile, I’ll open the floor for any of you that would like to publicly thank another staff member.” So loud. The voice over the loudspeaker is so loud and the shadowy voice in my head disappears.
“I think Jessie deserves a big round of applause.” My name. Why was someone saying my name? Who is that behind the microphone now? I can’t remember her name. I’ve spent the last seven weeks with her, seeing her every day, but I am too tired to remember her name. “Whenever I turned around, Jessie was running somewhere; running to the office, to organize the campers’ activities, running to the snack shop to dip ice-cream, running to a counselor to encourage her. She made her job look so easy, didn’t she?” People clap. They clap for me, but actually, not for me. They applaud a person that is a façade; that gives them what they want to see. I smile mechanically and the person behind the microphone continues, “I’ve spent a few summers here and I’ve seen Jessie go from kitchen worker to program coordinator. She’s great at every job she does, and is such a support to all of us.” More clapping for someone they think I am.
If I had the energy, I would laugh. Laugh at the irony. Laugh at them because they think I enjoyed the summer. Laugh at the way everyone thinks I am just like them. But I am too tired to laugh, so I let my hand fall numbly onto the tabletop. The pen rolls from my fingers.
Hello? Hello, are you there? The tremulous voice again. Without thinking, I grab the pen as it rolls along the table.
Yeah, what do you want? I write.
The buried voice surfaces again and I transcribe the words she whispers. Nothing much. I guess I just want to know what you’ve been up to…
Like you care. Why should you care?
I care about how your summer went. I want to know what you learned. The kind of growth you had, the kind of discoveries you made…
None. It was a boring summer. I hated every moment of it and I wanted nothing more that to leave. I want to leave NOW, OK?!
No, wait, please don’t go. I know you must have learned something…
NOTHING!
…All right then, what was one of your highlights?
I don’t have one. I don’t even remember anything.
Nothing?
No, I can’t remember anything. I remember a few things…
Like what?
…Like things I was involved in. But I don’t know why I was involved or what my motivation was.
So, what things do you remember?
It doesn’t matter.
It does.
No, it doesn’t.
Why not?
Because I don’t care.
You don’t?
No!
Are you angry?
…
Are you angry?
I… What’s it to you?
Are you angry?
Y…yes.
Why?
IT DOESN’T MATTER!
Yes, it does. Why are you angry?
Because I am, OK?
Are you hurt?
Would you stop asking these questions?
Are you hurt?
Yes!
Are you confused?
Yes!
…
I don’t want to talk about his anymore.
I know you don’t.
Then why are you making me?
I’m not making you. You spoke of your own will. You know you need to talk.
I hate you.
No, you don’t. You hate yourself for not doing the right thing.
All the voices around me fade. I don’t hear them anymore. I can’t hear them babbling about their religion and talking to me as if I agree with them. I can’t hear my parents’ voices pressing me to fit in, to put my own preferences aside for the summer and build up the faith of others. I can’t hear my own voice saying amen to statements I know in my heart aren’t true. All I can hear is the voice inside, my true voice that I locked away so it wouldn’t say anything that would offend others. It says over and over: You hate yourself for not doing the right thing. You didn’t do the right thing.
I… Oh God, you’re right.
Stop fighting it.
I’m scared.
I’ll bet.
I’m gonna tell you something, OK?
’K.
I’ve never felt so dead in my whole life. I feel like my nerves are totally dead. I thought at first that I was just tired, but I think it’s more than that. I sacrificed myself for the sake of group conformity. Everyone thinks that I’m someone I’m not, and I haven’t resisted it. I’ve just drifted along. I have no idea who I am. No one really cares about who I really am. Actually, they don’t know. They haven’t had the chance because I’ve been too afraid to let them see. But, I guess it doesn’t matter.
It does.
I’m not going to whine about how I have to hide who I am so that it won’t challenge anyone else, or about how I have to live at camp whether I like it or not. I’m not a baby; I’m a big girl, I can take it. But it’s gone much deeper this summer. Before, I was one of them. But this past year, I’ve changed; I have a faith of my own. It’s not like their faith, but still I have to pretend that I hold their beliefs. I can’t just hide the truth I know, I have to suffocate it. I have to forget about it… otherwise it might slip out. Now I hardly know what truth is.
It won’t be hard to start fresh; it already feels like this summer never happened. It’s all a dream—a freaky, ghoulish nightmare that is over. I’m wide awake, and I’m moving on with my life.
“Jessie?” I blink and look up as she stands above me.
“Yeah?”
“You look like you’re ready to fall asleep. Tired?”
“No, I’m fine. Nice banquet, huh?”
“Yes, very nice. But I’m so sad that the summer’s over. I was just starting to enjoy it.” I laugh along with her. She thinks mine is a real laugh. “If I come back next year, will you be here?” she asks.
My hand covers the scribbling that fills the paper in front of me. “Oh, sure. I’ll be here. My dad is the camp director; I’m not going anywhere.”
Six months later, a letter peeks up at me from the mailbox. Tearing the seal, I find the piece of paper, covered with my angry writing. Tucked inside is a picture: there is the camp staff, and I’m seated in the front row, smiling my happiest smile. I’m just beginning to recover from the summer and the photo brings it all back. I’m not doing that again.
You lost too much.
I did, and I’ll never give it up again.
You have to be there again. Next summer…
Yes, but I will be there. I. I and no one else. No imposters. No pretenders. I will be there, and I will not lie.
I tuck the picture back into the envelope and bury it all in a deep drawer.