said that, but it’s true.)
flickering glimpses, blue
and white, like ancient,
decomposing 16mm film.
Happiness escapes
me there, where faces
are vague and yesterday
seems to come tied
up in ribbons of pain.
(There must be
happiness there
somewhere, but
I can’t find it.)
Happiness? I look for it instead
in today, where memory
is something I can still
touch, still rely on.
I find it in the smiles
of new friends, the hope
blossoming inside.
(Scary, but accurate.)
My happiest memories
have no place in the
past; they are those
I have yet to create.
Those I Have Yet to Create
That must mean I plan
to create them. Funny,
when I got here, coasting
through life was the best
I figured I’d ever do—
managing the seesaw
with substances
or the slice of a blade.
So much blue
in my days, a spattering
of white, an abstract of
emotions, painting every
choice I ever made, hope
rarely represented
on that deviant canvas.
But here it is, a hint
of bronze, a shimmer
of gold frost.
Can my world fill
with color? Will I ever
live shades of red?
Yellow? Green?
When I think of Mama,
it all goes blue; memories
of Trevor are rooted in white.
Conner’s hand at my back,
and the surge of his masculinity
at the tip of my tailbone,
made me shiver copper.
I don’t know what
that means.
I only know
I liked it.
Suddenly, My Hands
Begin to shake, just a little
at first, then building,
building, tremoring,
an earthquake.
My pencil falls to the floor
with a loud clatter
and everyone turns to stare.
I bend to retrieve it,
but my hand refuses
to go where my brain
tries to point it.
Vanessa? Are you
all right? Mr. Hidalgo
jumps from his chair,
reaches my side almost
as quickly as Tony.
Vanessa? What’s wrong?
Tony’s eyes, frightened,
tell me I look even
worse than I feel.
Vanessa? Conner
joins the party.
Let me help you.
The three of them, all
talking at once, make
my brain hurt, trying
to keep up, churn it
into dizziness. And that
makes me want to throw
up. I feel the blood rush
from my face and jump
to my feet. “I have to go
to the bathroom.”
No one tries to stop me,
which is a very good thing.
I burst through the door,
into a stall, lean over the bowl,
let fly.
Conner
Ms. Littell Looks Horrified
Oh, the poor thing, she says.
Hope it wasn’t my assignment.
She leans over Vanessa’s
desk, decides to sit, reads
the neatly scripted words.
This is beautiful, she tells
the entire room. I wonder
if Ms. O’Reilly would mind
if I shared her poem. So
she does, and it is more
than beautiful—it lets us
see the inside of Vanessa.
She’s looking for happiness
in today, and some unknown
part of me—some stranger—
wants to give some joy away.
I wonder if Vanessa would
take it from me. When I look
into her eyes, I find surprise.
Suspicion. Fear. Curiosity.
I wonder which of those
brought her to this place,
what monsters—internal or
external—she has fought.
I wonder what drives her
to give in to the goddess
of lust and sharp edges,
open her skin and bleed,
to purposely walk where most
digress, lost in the moment.
I wonder how it feels
to possess such courage.
I Also Wonder
Why Vanessa got sick.
She looked fine just a few
seconds earlier. Of course,
she’s not one to whine about
an upset stomach. Still,
the way her hands shook was
scary—kind of like how my
grandfather’s used to betray him.
They say Parkinson’s isn’t
genetic, so it probably
won’t ever affect my
athletic abilities,
or hinder my GPA.
But hey, knowing my luck,
I’ll beat the odds and shimmy
my way into an early grave.
Mr. Sykes, exhales Ms. Littell,
would you please share your words?
She sighs, and I try not to
notice the view of her neckline.
I look down at what I’ve
written, smile. “I’m not sure
this is appropriate for
the rank and file. It’s more
than a little suggestive.”
I wait for her to read over
my shoulder, expect a
swift, negative reply.
Instead she says, You are
a skilled poet, gifted with
an ear for metaphor. This
is filled with passion. Read!
Guess I’ll Excite Everyone
With my words. Oh, well, she
asked for it. I glance around
the room, face-to-face, find
unmasked inquisitiveness.
“My happiest memories
are sun-streaked afternoons
in the cinnamon arms of my
Emily—the evening star
glowing in a dusk-choked
sky. She wraps me in pleasure,
silent except for her
occasional sigh, and I
whisper, ‘Keep me here,
beside you, where I can
breathe you in. Keep me
here, inside you, Emily.’
She makes no promises,
only tells me I can stay
for now. Sometimes it’s good
to be lonely, good to feel
pain. But not now, my love.
Now I want you here beside
me, where you can breathe me in.
And I need you inside me.
You make me young again.’
Pressed against the curve
of her back, my fingers trace
the contours of one breast,
and then the other. Such
perfection in the texture
of her skin, sublime petals,
pressed into recollection.
My Emily.”
Tony
Whoa, Baby!
Who the hell is Emily?
If I were straight, I’d
have to get to know her.
Think she has a brother?
Wonder why I haven’t
heard about her before.
; The classroom breaks
out in applause. “Damn,
Conner, could you make
my poem look any
worse? Here I write about
getting out of lockup
and you go and write
about sex. Why didn’t
I think about that?”
Maybe I would have,
if sex for me had ever
come close to that.
Conner’s face flushes.
It was the best thing
that ever happened to me.
“So tell us more. Who
is she? What does she
look like? Blond, I bet.”
An odd smile creeps
across his face. Yes,
she’s blond. Everywhere.
Things could get out
of control, but Mr.
Hidalgo reins it in.
Okay, everyone. I
think we’ve heard
enough about Emily.
Now the room breaks
out in a chorus of
boos. Mine is loudest.
Mr. Hidalgo Takes Control
Enough, already. Mr.
Ceccarelli, since
you seem to be so
communicative today,
I’m sure you’ve penned
a masterpiece. Please read.
I quit booing, clear
my throat. “I can’t
write poetry, not like
Conner and Vanessa
can. All I have is some
words. Scrambled thoughts.”
Ms. Littell comes over,
stands behind me, reads.
You have a lot more
here than scrambled
thoughts, and it’s most
definitely poetry. Please share.
Here goes nothing.
“Six years they took
away. Six years not
allowed to say much
but ‘Yes, sir; no, sir.’
Today, I breathe a free
man’s air, walk without
sacrifice anywhere I
choose. A woman passes
by. Without hesitation,
I say, ‘Hello. Beautiful
day, isn’t it?’ She turns
my way, smiles, a bright
hint of hope that all
might one day be right
in whatever world
tomorrow brings me.”
Still waiting for that.
No Applause
But I do get a couple
Way to go’s. Better
than total silence,
anyway. And I guess
it was good to hustle
up a halfway decent
memory. I had one
or two others, but
they involved Phillip.
These voyeurs might
like hearing about
Conner’s romantic
adventures, but I seriously
doubt they’d want to hear
about Phillip and me.
Anyway, that is a very
private part of my life,
something I keep stashed
away and only withdraw
in moments of weakness.
I’d rather share tales
of Ma, the ol’ dead ho’,
or Larry the pervert,
who got what he deserved.
Thank you for working
with me, says Ms. Littell.
I hope you’ll all keep
writing. There’s a lot
of talent in this room.
Please don’t waste it.
Ms. Littell takes her leave,
and it’s on to algebra,
or in Conner’s case,
calculus. I think he knows
more about it than Mr.
Hidalgo, but that’s just my
uneducated opinion.
Vanessa
Kate Finds Me
In the bathroom.
The heaves are gone,
and I’ve blown my
insides out the other end.
My hands still shake
and I try to comfort
them with cool water.
Dr. Starr heard you
weren’t feeling well
Kate’s tone is almost
apologetic. She wanted
me to let you know it’s
probably a side effect
of the lifetime
I knew there were
side effects but didn’t
realize they could be
so intense. Depression
is bad. This is worse.
My brain feels like it’s
squishing through mud.
“Can I quit the lith?”
You have to give it
a chance. We’ll reduce
the dosage until your
body adjusts. It might
take a few weeks.
Nausea. Diarrhea.
Tremors. Thick head.
Mouth like cotton balls.
“I need water. And I need
to lie down.”
No Wonder
Mama refused to stay
on the lithium. Yes, she
was diagnosed bipolar,
with a tendency toward
schizophrenia. They tried
to correct her brain’s mad
zigzag with medication.
But she was stubborn—swore
the only thing wrong
with her was her damnable
sidekick, the angel.
When they locked her up,
force-fed her pills,
she cleared up. Sooner
or later, they always let
her out, and she’d be
the mama we always
hoped she’d be.
For a few days.
That last day, she’d only
been out of the hospital
for a few hours.
Still had the bottle
of Xanax in her pocket.
The only problem
was she swallowed
a few too many.
One extra is one too
many. She yacked
down a half dozen.
Her doctors said
she wanted to die.
I thought so too.
And who was I
to argue?
My Own Overdose
Or whatever the problem is,
is making me sick again.
I don’t want to go
to the bathroom, chance
prying eyes or questions.
So I lay very still
on my bed, give myself
to the thrashing
surf inside my body,
my brain.
Quick, Vanessa, think
of something still,
something serene.
Sand. I think of sand.
Lying on a thick carpet
of sand, somebody warm
beside me. My memory
holds Trevor. I replace
his face with Conner’s.
Drowsy. I am drowsy
in his arms, feel his bloom
against the small of my back.
Like today. It is bright
in the desert sun—beneath
magic clouds of white.
Sucked into the white,
I give myself to Conner.
“Make love to me,” I tell him.
And he answers,
I can’t deal with your
freaky mood swings,
Vanessa. One minute
you’re solid, the next
you’re like water.
Boiling water …
It’s Trevor’s voice, and
I scream.
Conner
Thursday P.M.
Dr. Starr calls me to her
office, points me into a chair,
laces her fingers under
he
r chin. Where is this going?
Conner, I’m pleased with your
progress, the bulldog says.
But I really think we need
to address the issue
of your not wanting to go
home for a visit this weekend.
The Easter holiday provides
connection with your family.
I know that frightens you,
but I don’t know why. There’s
no history of abuse.
Why shut yourself off from them?
“You’ve got it all wrong. I’m
not afraid of going home.
It’s just that I’m happier here,
where I don’t have to evade
questions no one wants the
answers to. At least when you
ask me something, it’s because
you want to know what I’ve
got to say. Mom and Dad
expect only what they want
to hear, and only then if
it’s said with total respect.
Going home can only
lead to confrontation. Why
would I want that when I’ve
finally freed myself of it?”
As I Wait for Her Reply
I study her face, find an
odd blend of amusement
and understanding. But she
doesn’t pretend sympathy.
You have to face them sometime,
Conner. No parent is
perfect, no child always right.
Climb into their shoes, take
an honest look at yourself.
Do you like what you see?
Can you try just a little to
understand their point of view?
Their son tried to kill himself—
a parent’s worst nightmare
because they must accept blame.
They want to forgive you, but first
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