Facing Death

The officers met her at the edge of Diana’s gravel driveway. As Kitty walked to meet them, she was glad that she hadn’t cried and made her eyes all red and puffy.

“Anything I can do for you, sir?” she asked the first one as he stepped toward her. Both were heavily muscled and looked to be in their early twenties. For all Kitty knew though, they could have been several hundred years old. There was no way to tell.

“Would you mind coming with us, ma’am?”

Fiddling with her personalized silver bracelet, she followed them with trepidation. “Is there, like, something wrong?”

“No ma’am. We would just like to talk to you a few minutes, that’s all.”

They didn’t clap her in handcuffs, but they made sure to stand firmly on either side of her as she walked down the sidewalk. Pedestrians turned to look at her, so she smoothed the worry creases on her forehead and took long, calm strides, feeling self conscious. Eventually, they made their way to a less populated area of the town. Leading her to a secluded space between two dingy shops, they stopped.

“Do you know how much people are willing to pay the President for a baby?”

“What?” It was not the question she had expected.

The officer ignored her question. “6.5 million dollars. But the population has to stay constant. Do you know where 95% of the lives that are given to new people come from?”

“N-no.” Kitty didn’t understand what the man was driving at. Her boots were hurting her feet. She looked around for somewhere to sit down, but there were only a few trashcans and overturned crates with bits of rotting fruit stuck to them. It suddenly occurred to her that she was in an alley. A dark alley.

“The Government creates new lives by getting rid of old ones. Old ones that are rebellious, threatening, strange, or just… don’t belong here.”

Dark spots sprouted in front of her eyes like black flowers as she started to panic. “But what about the gang victims?”

“The Government is a gang. That makes you…”

The victim.

“No! Please! I-I’m not a rebel, I belong here!”

“Your friend is. That’s close enough. Besides, she’s going to die by herself anyway. You need a little help.”

The first officer drew his gun.

Like a thick, black straw, the barrel of the gun faced Kitty, inches from her face. But she didn’t want to put it in her mouth, nor sip its contents. The very elixir of death that had made her wake up screaming in the night, over and over, had come true.

She turned her face away, remembering the mutilated faces in the newspaper she had always gagged at. Then she started sobbing, because it didn’t matter if her face got mutilated or not, she would still be dead.

“Please.” she cried, “Please no. No. Don’t, please.”

It was all Diana’s fault. If only she hadn’t visited her that morning. If only she had just stayed away from her altogether in the first place. Even though everyone Kitty knew avoided Diana, Kitty had been visiting her for months.

Too late. Kitty heard a volley of shots, and then she sank to her knees. She floated into nothingness, just like she always feared would happen…

Raisinets

“Isaac stuffed too many Raisinets up his nose. I’m driving him to the ER now,” Jake’s wife Olivia said over the phone.

Jake had leaned his office chair backward to reach the phone on his desk. When Olivia spoke, he’d tipped over onto the floor. Not again! He thought.

Jake’s favorite candy was Raisinets, and there was always a box in the cupboard. Jake had thought his three year-old son would be safe from the candy if Jake stashed it somewhere Isaac wouldn’t be able to reach, but apparently not.

“I’ll meet you there,” he answered, picking himself up off the carpet.

There was no question as to whether or not he should leave work. He’d stayed late that day as it was. It was already past the time he should be home. Besides, it was Jake’s fault his son had started the habit, though his wife didn’t know it.

She’d been out that evening, leaving Jake alone with his son. After playing dinosaurs for hours, they’d eaten macaroni and cheese, with ice cream for dessert.

“Why you putting bugs in your ice keam?” Isaac had asked him as Jake sprinkled some Raisinets into his bowl.

“They make it chewier,” Jake replied.

Disgusted, Isaac scrunched his nose. “Where you get dem?”

Jake smiled. “These are special bugs that only comes from one place.” Reaching over, he pretended to pull a Raisinet out of his son’s nose. Then he ate it.

“Dey live in my nose!?”

“Yep, that’s their home.” Jake returned to his ice cream, hardly noticing Isaac watching him eat the “bugs”.

“Maybe they get homesick,” Isaac said in a small voice. Jake didn’t take the comment seriously. He thought it was just one of those things kids said that adults couldn’t understand.

Two weeks later, Jake had to work late. When he finally made it home, after Isaac was asleep, Olivia had the strangest story to tell.

“…and when I came over, the whole box of Raininets was spilled on the table! Then I saw that his nose was stretched weirdly. It took me ten minutes to get them out.”

Jake played the bemused father. “Huh, that’s strange. Maybe it’s one of those phases.”

The next day he’d talked to Isaac, making him promise to stop. But his talk hadn’t worked. As Jake drove to the hospital, he prayed his son would be alright. He also prayed Olivia hadn’t found out who’d given Isaac the bad habit.

When he arrived, Isaac was out of the hospital, and the Raisinets were out of his nose. Swooping up his son, Jake planted a kiss on the top of his head.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Hey, buddy. What do I hear about you stuffing things up your nose? Didn’t we talk about that?”

“They were bugs, Dad. They wanted to go home. And I thought that if they could go home, you would come home, too.”

Jake couldn’t speak. Instead, he looked into his son’s liquid brown eyes, and then hugged him tightly.

Mark Doty Reading

The first thing that surprised me about the reading was how many people were there. It made my expectations a little higher than they had been for the other two writers that we listened to. I think he met those expectations pretty well. It was amazing how Doty could take some small detail that most other people would overlook and write a stimulating poem about it. The “Lullaloo” poem with the crickets/peepers/ whatever they were poem is an example of this.

It was interesting that he said he couldn’t read his poems from years ago because the rhythm and voice weren’t written the same way he writes today. I thought that once an author finally developed their own voice, it wouldn’t change much over time. But I guess it makes more sense for it to change, because most people themselves change greatly over time because of experiences they’ve had.

My favorite poem was the one about the crashing airplane. There was so much emotion, so much packed dread and anticipation. In that instant, I as a reader knew that Doty thought he was going to die then. Listening to that real experience makes me wonder how I would react if I got the chance to ponder my death before it happened. I also thought it amazing that he worked humor into his near-death-experience. And the strategy worked with the flow of the poem, because that’s the kind of person Doty was.

I liked how he gave a background story to a lot of his poems. The introduction to the poem about the goats was especially interesting. Doty was touched to learn that the kids in the first grade class had read his poem when they weren’t able to go to the goat farm. Stories like that helped me as a listener to delve more deeply into the poems themselves.

Fear Itself

My phone beeped as Kat hung up on me. Well that was rude. And what did she mean by “something terribly wrong”? I started for my car automatically, but then realized I wouldn’t need it. I couldn’t drive to the place, I had to walk. Buttoning my coat, I took a few paces toward the trees at the edge of the property, then turned back and grabbed a crow bar from the trunk of the car. I’d no idea what was going on, so I’d at least try to be prepared.

Probably the only reason I thought of grabbing a weapon was that I’d seen too many movies where people stupidly walk into a suspicious situation empty handed and then end up in the back of a white van with their hands tied. The claw-like branches of the trees in the misty dusk did give my backyard a horror movie-feel to it.

After I located the hiking path, I walked along the smooth dirt while texting my parents. I told them I was going for a walk and I might not be back by the time they got home. I texted my brother Justin, too, saying if I wasn’t back around ten-ish to look for me at the Forsythia Fort. He was the only one in the family who knew where that was.

After seeing my breath puff out in little clouds and mix with the damp mist for a few minutes, I started to jog. No one was around to question a teenager in a puffy coat running around with a crowbar, and it was cold, so why not? I had about a mile to go to reach the place. As it got darker and the house lights faded, I realized what an idiot I was for not thinking to bring a flashlight. Then I thought maybe that wasn’t so bad, as it would be harder on someone if they were following me.

I halted, listening for any footsteps that would alert me if I was being tailed. There were none, obviously. I was taking this situation way more seriously than it should be taken. Kat and Jenna weren’t drug addicts, they didn’t get drunk, they didn’t have any creepy friends that I knew about, and their parents weren’t abusive. They weren’t normal – Kat had an unnatural obsession for chocolate tootsie roll pops, and Jenna was always swinging her foot in rhythm as if she wanted to dance to her own life’s soundtrack – but those weren’t exactly criminal tendencies. The only thing we ever did that was against the law was say that we were under thirteen when buying movie tickets. They were cheaper that way. And we couldn’t even do that anymore, because we looked too old.

I walked on, trying not to trip on tufts of half-dead grass, protruding rocks, or tree roots that became more frequent the deeper into the trees I went. It was too dark to run anymore, as I neared the hideout, the Forsythia Fort, and I wanted to be quiet. Giving my position away too early could be disastrous. There was no telling who might be keeping watch.

I could just make out a dark blob up ahead where the Forsythia bushes and tree trunks made a thick ring. In the center was where we would always meet when we were little. We would pretend we were runaway orphans, using grass seed and berries mixed together as “bread”. Water with flower petals in a cracked earthen jar was “soup”, and our beds were piles of dried pine needles. That was before we got to be boring teenagers. Once we reached middle school, the only thing we did was sit and talk.

I reached the edge of the bushes, peering into the branches that were still covered with wilted leaves. I couldn’t detect any sound or light coming from inside. I stood still, keeping my breathing quiet while considering my options. I could a) venture inside, making lots of noise and putting myself into a vulnerable position. b) call out, revealing my presence to possible threats. c) try to find a tree to climb and look down into the space. Maybe I would see something better that way. Or I could d) stand there debating all night and freeze to death. I chose e) Scream like a tortured soul in Hell because something wet just touched my hand.

“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!”

If I’d had to use the bathroom, I would have done it right then. My crowbar whipped around as I spun, but it hit only air.

“Chrissy? Is that you?” Jenna called, from inside the bushes. She sounded more squeaky than usual.

“What are you screaming about? You scared me to death.” From the husky tone of her voice, I could tell Kat had been crying. “I already have enough to be scared about as it is. Get in here so we can talk.”

I about melted into a puddle of relief as I heard the twins and saw the vague outline of Jen’s French poodle Flufflepuff wagging her tail next to me. When the dog licked my hand again, I pet her on the head instead of trying to brain her.

As I struggled through the clinging branches of the bush, the relief was ripped away, replaced by a growing resentment and suspicion.

“Okay,” I said once I reached the clearing. “What was so important that you had to make me come out here in the dark and freezing cold to hear it?”

I looked back and forth between the two almost-identical figures huddled together on the ground. Neither was wearing a coat. At first I couldn’t tell who was who, but then I made out Jenna’s slippered foot twitching in the air. It moved faster than usual.

Jenna looked at Kat, who sat very still, hugging her knees.

“What happened was - ” Kat began, but her voice broke. She tried again. “I mean, I was kind of – Well, it was an - ” Burying her face in her arms, she started to sob. “You tell her! I c-can’t get it out.”

I started to roll my tongue around my mouth, a habit I had when I got nervous. Kat was always saying something. It was usually getting her to shut up that was the problem. Too much sugar from those tootsie roll pops, probably.

Her sister took a deep breath. “What she’s trying to say is, sheaccidentallyburntthehousedownwhenshetriedtotoastabagel.”

“The stupid fire extinguisher wouldn’t work,” Kat mumbled through her sweater. “Now it’s gone…all gone…”

“Mom and Dad went away for the weekend,” Jenna added. Her foot bounced higher than ever. “I don’t think they know yet.”

I looked at the two shivering, frazzled girls on the ground in front of me. Then I looked at my hand, which still gripped my weapon. A laugh escaped me before I could swallow it back.

“What part of that is funny to you?” Kat demanded.

“Nothing! I’m sorry, it’s just that I was expecting – never mind.” I was just a 21^st century girl with an overdose of imagination.

Sombrero

Sequins reflect the sun, throwing fairy lights around the room

Pristine showy whiteness

Arched brim, like a cat stretching to show off

Glinting silver stitching

Round as the full moon

It almost swallows my head when I put it on, because it’s so large.

When I touch it, it feels fuzzy, like moss.

It hangs over my bed as a reminder of Mexico.

Wearing it expresses my crazy side that isn’t often apparent.

Smudges of dirt are easy to see, but equally easy to rub off.

I don’t want to write a poem right now

I don’t want to write a poem right now

my brain is half asleep

and eyelids are taking their final bow…

Suddenly, my alarm goes BEEP

My brain is half asleep

though the sun is shining bright.

Suddenly, my alarm goes BEEP

Oh no! There’s still that poem to write.

Though the sun is shining bright

I have no concentration.

Oh no! There’s still that poem to write.

I need some inspiration.

I have no concentration

What should I write about?

I need some inspiration.

Writer’s block makes me want to shout!

What should I write about?

I give up. It’s no use.

Writer’s block makes me want to shout!

I’ll give my teacher a good excuse.

I give up. It’s no use.

Can’t think of what to say.

I’ll give my teacher a good excuse.

Oh well, it’s the only way.

Can’t think of what to say

to explain my situation

Oh well, it’s the only way,

I’ll write an explanation.

To explain my situation,

I’ll do the only thing I can.

I’ll write an explanation,

to make her understand.

I’ll do the only think I can

without making myself look silly,

to make her understand

that I did try, really.

Dear teacher,

I wish I could explain myself better,

but I hope you won’t take away a whole grade letter.

I chose the Pantoum form because the repetition and rhyme worked well with my theme. Even though the Pantoum doesn’t need to rhyme, mine does, because things like that seem to make a lot of poems lighter, and I wanted this to be a light, understandable poem that didn’t boggle people’s minds or frustrate them with abstractedness. Those types of poems are sometimes fun to write too, especially if I’m trying to gain an understanding of something complex, but that wasn’t what I wanted to do here. It would be hard to tell a story in chronological order in this form because of all the repeating lines, so that wasn’t my goal either. I had one main theme, so the lines I used could be flexible and put into different contexts as the poem moved from one stanza to the next. It was surprisingly difficult to find lines that could be taken out of context and put into a different one. By using this form, I hoped to convey the humorous side of the poem and make people smile, not delve into the depths of critical thinking. I also think poems that repeat and rhyme are often more memorable and less boring. The only rule I broke was putting the stanza that begins with “Dear teacher” at the very end of the poem. Strictly speaking, that doesn’t follow the correct form of the Pantoum. I did that just to emphasize that the poem was no longer me talking to myself, but me talking to someone else. It was meant to be sort of like a post script at the end of a letter.

Hope

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

~Emily Dickinson (1861)

Phoenix Hope

Swirls of heat top feathery flame

of free flying bird never tamed.

Always there yet out of my reach,

because pain and patience you teach.

Wordless, tuneless song wakes the morn

And my trust in you is reborn.

Scattering sparks like sowing seeds

in the earth for those in need.

Soaring high as the wind unfolds,

yet you’re the only thing I hold.

Falling, searing, gasp of dying

desolation in me crying.

But up from your ashes you rise

to show that Hope never dies.