by Pat Brisson
toward old and loyal friendship.
And I am anchored here,
where last they saw me,
waiting (still)
for my mother
to be home with me again;
waiting (foolishly)
for the Grady of my dreams
to come back to me—attentive,
talkative, and kind;
waiting (hopefully)
for Barb, who
I know
still carries our friendship
in a safe spot in her heart.
My message crawls along those
strands of hope.
Why did you leave me?
Please, come back.
I’m still here,
waiting,
hoping,
longing for you.
Things to Do When Others Laugh and Stare
Pretend you don’t notice.
Pretend you just remembered something important
and
hurry away in the opposite direction.
Pretend you’re really, really interested in
the poem you have taped to the front of your history
binder.
(Keep a poem taped to the front of your history
binder.)
Wear headphones even if you’re not listening to music.
Act as if you’re listening to something really
spectacular.
Stare straight ahead as if they don’t exist.
Duck into the nearest girls’ room to get away from
them.
As long as you’re there, pee.
(If they seem to be staring, not to be mean, but just
’cause
they’re wondering what it’s like for you,
try to smile at them.)
Recite poetry to yourself.
Practice your acceptance speech
(Academy Award, Grammy, whatever).
Practice not caring what others think.
Practice, if you can,
forgiveness.
And if you can’t,
hope someday you will.
The Poetry Slam
Ms. Butler’s all excited about
this poetry slam
we’re going to be in.
She tells us:
write from your center,
your core,
your very self,
about something only you
can tell.
Say it with all the passion
you can muster,
with all the fierce, proud,
wild, angry emotion
you can bring to it.
And so I do.
You Look at Me
You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,
and some of you
stare and whisper, roll your eyes and laugh;
say things like,
“Can you believe she’s pregnant?
Who would ever want to do it with her?”
You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,
and some of you
put your heads down,
afraid to speak to me,
afraid that I might talk to you because
once in fourth grade we sat next to each other
and were sort of friends, even though
recently all we ever did was say hello.
But now, even hello is too much for you,
I guess, because you’re afraid you might catch this
and you can’t afford to let anything affect your GPA.
You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,
and some of you
sigh those grown-up
why-is-she-throwing-her-life-away-like-this sighs
when you see me,
and I can feel you writing me off because
you-can’t-save-them-all-so-
let’s-concentrate-on-the-ones-we-can-help
and you pass me over
and give up on me just when I need you the most.
You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,
and some of you
are careful not to meet my eye,
careful not to jinx your own good luck,
you who’ve risked unprotected sex
and not gotten pregnant
or who’ve risked it and have,
but have whisked it all away;
it won’t happen to me,
you tell yourselves,
or it won’t happen again, because
I’m not like her,
I’m not like her at all.
You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,
and some of you
make crude remarks—
rude, uncalled-for, crude remarks
that would embarrass your fathers
and mortify your mothers,
but that make the other guys laugh and
punch your arm or slap your back as if
a cutting remark were a skill to be honed;
as if tearing someone down
somehow builds you up,
making you more than
the little, mean-spirited person you are.
You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,
and some of you
look right at me and smile,
look right at me and say, “Hi, Molly!”
look right at me and ask how I did on the biology test
or the math quiz
or about what I’m doing my paper on for English,
and I am so moved by your kindness
(did you even think that such small acts
could be considered kindnesses?),
so moved by those tiny, thoughtful acts that I almost
want to forgive all the others,
almost want to believe
this is enough—
almost want to kiss your cheeks
and close my eyes
and weep.
I Look at Them
They sit there wide-eyed,
silent, absolutely still.
Then one by one they start to clap.
And Ms. Butler smiles,
and I think perhaps
I’ve done it right.
The Seventh Month: The Hardness Surprises Me
Did I think it would be gently springy
like a beach ball?
Or soft and collapsing
like a feather pillow
when you put your head on it?
Whatever I thought,
it wasn’t this—
the skin stretched so tight
around the hardness of my middle
that the pressure of a desk edge against it
makes me wince.
(Bitter) Sweet Sixteen
Last year on my birthday
Barb and I went to the movies—
a sweet romantic chick flick
that made us sigh and believe
for a while
in undying love.
This year on my birthday
I went to my doctor’s appointment—
a quick examination
that made me wince
and wonder why anyone would
choose to go through pregnancy more than once.
Last year I got two CDs and a pair of earrings.
This year I got stretch marks
and a reminder to keep taking my vitamins.
Last year we ate chocolate cake
with thick, dark icing, topped with scoops of vanilla
ice cream.
This year I gained six more pounds
and got instructions to avoid junk food
and too many empty calories.
Last year I stayed up late with Barb
and didn’t get to bed till two.
This year I fell asleep at nine
but had to get up at two to pee.
Last year I made a wish
to find the perfect boyfriend
and discover lov
e.
This year I feel betrayed by wishes.
Last year I was fifteen,
expecting all good things.
This year I’m sixteen,
expecting something else entirely.
Barb Sends a Card
Thinking of you
on the front.
And
Missing you
on the inside.
And in her familiar handwriting:
Happy Birthday, Molls.
Love and hugs,
Barbie Sue.
This clinches it for me
and I call her.
An hour later
she still can’t understand
the choice I’m making,
but it no longer matters
because friends can disagree, right?
And she is,
after all,
my friend.
Not Who But Where (and What)
I never was before,
but now
I am a place,
and something’s happening there.
I think of how the circus tent
transforms the empty lot
into a stage for acrobats and clowns.
It springs up overnight
and hums with life
and then is gone.
I have become that place,
that circus tent that
holds the bustling show.
The top-hatted announcer echoes in my head:
“Ladies and Gentlemen,
and Children of All Ages!
I direct your attention to
the center ring,
where an amazing feat is taking place.
An actual human being is growing from
smaller-than-you-can-even-see
into a person complete with toes
and fingers, eyes and ears.
Only a few weeks left, folks,
before the show leaves town,
so tell your friends and neighbors
to come one,
come all,
to the amazing,
the fascinating,
the one,
the only,
Molly Biden
Circus and
Baby-Making Show! ”
The Eighth Month: Hot, Flying Corn
I’m kicked awake
from the inside—
some fierce internal foot
pushing the roundness of my belly
all askew.
I think of the pots
of thick corn chowder
I’ve made with Gram,
how they come to a boil on our stove:
bubbles rising in unexpected places,
splattering us,
if we weren’t careful,
with pieces of
hot, flying corn.
Birthing Class for Teens
Seven of us lie on blankets,
learn how to breathe
(slowly, deeply to lessen the pain),
how to relax everything we can,
how to focus on our support person’s voice
(two boyfriends, three mothers, one sister, and Gram,
all looking even more uncomfortable than we feel).
We watch a video with lots of sweating,
heavy breathing, groans and grunts,
and a slippery, crying baby at the end.
Some of the others wipe away tears,
but I’m too busy wondering:
after all the pain and groans
and sweaty labor,
how many of us who are here today
will be giving birth and then
giving our babies away?
Question: How Is a Pregnant Girl Like a Library Book?
Answer: They both have a due date.
And mine, thank God,
is July 8—
almost two weeks after school gets out,
so I’ll be able to finish that chapter
before beginning the next.
But this I can’t put down
if I get tired of it;
this I’ll have to stay with until it’s done.
There’s no flipping ahead or skipping pages,
no matter how much I want to know what happens.
I only hope this heroine has heart and guts enough
to last until The End.
The Ninth Month: Almost There
I am so full of baby
I can barely
breathe.
He crowds my lungs
and butts my bladder,
elbows and knees himself into my ribs.
My breasts,
like overblown balloons,
rest upon the shelf my belly makes;
the nipples stare back wide-eyed
from my bedroom mirror.
I scan my naked body like a crowd,
searching
for that one familiar face.
Where is she?
I ask the strange reflection.
Where is that girl I used to know
and be?
Talk, Talk, Talk
Like a burst of energy,
it shoots through me—
a shot of joy
that gives me strength
for what’s ahead.
Barb called last night to say
she’s coming for a visit
after school gets out.
And when she gets here, we will laugh
and hug each other and
dance around for joy,
patching the holes made in our friendship
by those months of almost silence,
with nonstop,
nothing-else-matters,
too-wired-to-go-to-sleep,
best-friend-forever
talk, talk, talk.
PART SIX
in which Molly gives birth, gains wisdom, and brings the story to a close
A Girl Goes into Labor at School: A Prose Poem/Play
Scene: Molly, a pregnant sixteen-year-old, in a classroom (the teacher and subject don’t matter; she’s not paying attention to either). The other characters are cardboard cutouts. Molly doesn’t speak but conveys everything through her expressions and actions: pretending to take notes, gazing out the window, moving around in her seat, grimacing, etc. The description of the internal and external action are told by a girl in voice-over.
It starts with a
twinge
(easy enough to ignore), then nothing . . . nothing . . .
nothing . . . until another
twinge
(also easy to ignore), then nothing . . . nothing . . .
nothing . . . until another
twinge,
again and again for several hours and several different
classes (now the twinges are more noticeable and less
easy to ignore), then
contraction.
She feels her belly harden and a crampy pain at the
bottom of it. She rubs the hardness away when she
thinks nobody’s looking. Then nothing for a while,
and she worries and wonders and tries to ignore it, but
then another
contraction,
and she squirms in her seat and takes slow, deep
breaths, pretending it’s not really happening because
no way is she ready for this to happen here today—
she’s not due for another three and a half weeks—and
before she’s ready for it another
contraction,
and she knows from the classes she went to with her
grandmother that she should be counting how many
minutes apart they are, but the part of her brain that
still makes superstitious deals with the Universe tells
her that if she doesn’t count the minutes then the
contractions will go away and she’ll discover it was all
a big mistake and she won’t go into labor for another
few weeks, when school is out and she’s more ready,
but then anotherc o n t r a c t i o n ,
longer than the others, and she closes her eyes and
bites the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out
because she’s really starting to think that the Universe
will not be making deals today and, whether she
counts the minutes or not, the contractions are going
to keep on coming, and she feels so crampy and her
belly is so hard and she wants to cry because this is
just so unfair, then
contraction
trickle,
and she thinks, Oh my God! Have I wet myself? Am I
bleeding? What the hell is happening here? And she starts
to think that she would rather sit in this desk forever
than get up and walk out in front of the entire class
with pee or blood or whatever it is trickling out of her.
And she imagines herself sitting here until dismissal
while everyone around her packs up and heads for
home and they shut off the lights and the hallways get
silent and she could quietly leave unnoticed. And thencon TRAC tion
trickle . . . trickle . . .
Has any person actually died of embarrassment? If not,
she is convinced she will be the first unless she just
concentrates very hard and makes it stop. She’s read
articles about these guys in India who can make their
hearts practically stop beating just by concentrating
on it, and if they can do that, surely she can do this,
because she wants it so much more than they could
possibly want their hearts to slow down, because