the lede, factual recitations
my specialty, I inquired
as required
accidentally acquiring
a calling to listen very carefully
and try to write the truth
cave painting
I’d been scribbling ever since
Mrs. Sheedy-Shea taught me haiku:
stories, poems, fairy tales, mysteries,
gothic nightmares
and, occasionally, happy endings
when I had babies I tried to write for them, too,
I sucked
but persisted, resisting the temptation to quit
I wrote picture books
that sucked so bad
they were rejected over and over and over again
but I persisted, enlisting new friends
all of us thirsting to write and be read
I pounded out novels and nonfiction,
major suckage, constantly, appropriately rejected
I freaking persisted, insisting I could figure
it out
The stories, the words, the phrases
coming out of the mists persisted,
even when I wanted
to pack it in, give it up, and get out.
My existence insisted
on listening to the voices in my head distantly
cheering my ambition
I tried a new thing—revision—
and persisted, dismissing my doubts, risking
my pride
demystifying a process
that consisted of untwisting the trysting words
in my brainpan and convincing them
to behave
inspiration and craft slowly melding
into this, the consistent beat of my words
against the drum
if it please the court
the courthouse reporter was out sick one day
so they sent me in his place, the defendant
a plain white guy, late thirties,
kinda small, cheap suit,
good haircut, charged with ugly counts
of sexual assault, plus kidnapping
he looked bored
She went to a party with friends,
hey, nineteen, a good time;
loud music and wine coolers
the night warm enough for the crowd
to dance outside, yeah, he was older
but older guys always showed up
invited or not. After dancing under the stars,
she had to go home, but the girl who drove
there was wasted and she didn’t have enough cash
for a cab
so, looking bored, he offered
to drive her home
a gentleman,
on the way he asked if they could stop
at his parents’ house for a sec
so he could let out the dog, a puppy
she loved puppies
so she followed him into his parents’ house
and found that there was no puppy,
no parents
just a roll of duct tape
and twenty-four hours of torture
as the police recited the details
the rapist yawned
Defense lawyer did his job
by attacking the victim
shouting that she drank, she danced,
she dressed to look good
she wanted it, she followed him
liked it rough
or planned on marriage or extortion
as she cried on the stand, long blonde hair
in front of her face, a curtain for her sanity,
he painted her into a corner with accusations
fantastical but just barely legal
screaming lawyers objected
counter-objected, sustained, upheld
blind justice torn apart by jackals
the jury confused
that young woman shook so hard
I thought the roof would cave in
ever been in a fight?
fists like hammers, punches thrown
rose-red bloom filling the room
as your rage catches fire
an exploding can of spray paint
when you see that red
shit’s gonna get real
you’re gonna hurt someone
or do something stupid
probably both
I saw that red, as the victim shook
cuz she’d thought she was safe
thought there was a puppy
I saw myself crawling over the seats, leaping
throwing punches, busting knuckles, breaking
a chair over his head, the sweet sound of his teeth
skittering across the floor
my pencil snapped
me, still in my chair, notebook soaked
sweat dripping down my face
judge banged the gavel
BAM!
ended the day early
I stayed till the court emptied and I could breathe
again,
told the story to my editor, who did the right thing
for journalism
by assigning someone else to cover the trial
defense lawyer negotiated a plea bargain,
the rapist
sentenced to some easy time in county jail,
a mild slap on the wrist
Years later, walking in the mall
with my daughters tall and gangly
I saw him again, that rapist
only that time, he didn’t look bored
because
he was hunting
how the story found me
An old woman rocks in my subconscious
sending songs, hidden messages, spor—
//record scratch//
I dream a lot in Danish
when I wake up from a danskdrøm
I confuse the two languages
until the coffee kicks in,
this morning as I worked on a draft of this poem,
I centered
it on the word spor
I said the old woman who wanders
in the woods of my mind
who knits in the rocking chair of my subconscious
she shows me the spors,
the hints of what passed this way
when I wasn’t paying attention,
and what lies ahead in wait
except the word in English is “footprints,”
or “animal tracks”
the dashes left in snow by a frightened rabbit
punctures made by the chasing wolf
maybe she is future me, that old dame
maybe future me sends my dreams /
mine drømme
to now me, or past me, as warnings/advarsler
or advice/råd, or maybe she’s just messing with me
and cackling
my nightmares repeat over and over
until I pay attention, pay my respects
to whatever is eating
at me; one night, just as my oldest
started middle school
I heard a girl sobbing, brokenhearted
I jolted awake and checked on my daughters
convinced that I’d heard one of them, but no,
the crying girl was lost in my head
and she wouldn’t let me sleep
because she couldn’t speak
and she needed an interpreter
so I started writing in the middle of that night
the stream of unconscious eventually merging
with my waking self, a year of scribbling
mostly before dawn
turns out the mother word is spor in Old English,
Germanic, Old Norse, and survives
unchanged in Danish
pops up in modern English as spoor
borrowed from Afrikaans in 1823
so I wasn’t as trapped between languages
as I thought
and the hour spent swimming
in multilingual etymology
was its own reward
the first publisher I sent Speak to rejected it
I never thought anyone would publish the story
let alone read it
I am often distracted, diverted
from my path when I explore old wounds
it’s a defensive reaction,
a way to modulate my feelings
and cope with the discomfort,
like telling jokes at a funeral,
not appropriate, but less damaging than gin
too many grown-ups tell kids to follow
their dreams
like that’s going to get them somewhere
Auntie Laurie says follow your nightmares instead
cuz when you figure out what’s eating you alive
you can slay it
Speak, Draft One, Page One
(from my journal)
FIRST MARKING PERIOD
I’m looking for the key
to open the door
to this story
an overheard motel
room conversation
if they would just turn down the television
I could hear the words clearly,
maybe find the magic
formula.
No outline. Not this time,
just a character on a page,
the stage
spotlighted
and alone
with her fear,
heart open,
unsheltered.
Melinda, age 14.
Trapped in a year with no calendar
pages, just day after day
of 14,
cuz the hands of the clock
in biology class are frozen
at five till three.
two
Polyhymnia
It is my first morning of high school.
I
have seven new notebooks,
a skirt I hate,
and a stomachache.
(opening lines of Speak)
I began high school (my fourth school in four
years)
with six polyester skirts, not just one,
all sewn by my grandmother,
who loved me so much
she didn’t want me to start
the new school in hand-me-downs,
cuz the rich kids would laugh
she sewed me six skirts
the colors of autumn
so I could wear a brown turtleneck
with all of them. I armored
myself that first day
(two weeks after the boy raped me)
with incantations grandmaternal;
love-sewn skirt, unheard prayers,
a penny in each loafer, I walked to the bus stop
then to the gallows
my first day of ninth grade had no assembly
no “First Ten Lies They Tell You in High School”
no showdown with Mr. Neck
Speak is a novel
rooted in facts, to be sure,
but a story bred with its own DNA
an invasive species growing out of a stump
of a tree hit by lightning
growing from the girl who survived
the overlap of my stories and my life
is a garden courtyard, sky-strung with stars
and scars where planets were torn
from their orbits
the courtyard where that stump grows
is surrounded by stone walls
three miles high, carved
with thousands of locked doors
and secrets that bloom open
in the moonlight
conspiracy
They said if Speak sold a couple thousand copies
we’d be lucky, cuz teenagers didn’t like to read
I had no expectations or hopes
I never thought it would be published at all
one day a man called me to tell me
I was a finalist
for the National Book Award
confused, I called my editor
who explained that I needed to buy a dress
a fancy one, cuz this was a seriously big deal
country mouse in New York City
I scurried to events, anxious, unsure
tried to blend into the wallpaper
my fellow finalists more comfortable
with the shiny new world that required dresses
or suits, riding in cabs instead of on the subway
student journalists gathered to interview
us, the Fab Five Finalists, onstage:
Walter Dean Myers, Monster
Louise Erdrich, The Birchbark House
Kimberly Willis Holt, When Zachary Beaver
Came to Town
Polly Horvath, The Trolls
and me,
the spotlights in our eyes made it hard to see
our interrogators, but the questions were
thoughtful.
When it was over the kids filed out,
and we headed for the door
toward lunch at a posh restaurant
on someone else’s dime
but Walter
Walter was deep in conversation
with one of the students,
talking books and Harlem
and other important things
I waited by the door for him
Walter was the first established author I’d met
he welcomed me into the world of books for kids
with joy, wisdom, and grace, he taught
me everything I know about my responsibility
to my readers, starting that day
cuz he didn’t go to lunch at all, he waved us off
that young man was filled with questions
and Walter had some answers
and questions of his own
he made the time for a reader
because integrity required it
that’s what we’re called to do
the award dinner was mad stressful, the chairman
of my publisher’s company sat at my table
he’d flown in from Germany for the event
and didn’t look happy about it
that made two of us; my dress itched,
my shoes pinched
nervous-thirsty, I drank gallons of water
constantly racing to the bathroom to pee
Walter sat at the table next to mine
throughout the evening, he’d turn
and tell me a joke
point out how glamorous events
like this had nothing to do with the sweat
of writing,
but the desserts were good
when the time came, we enjoyed
Oprah Winfrey’s speech
Steve Martin pronounced my name right,
that was impressive,
then the chair of the Young People’s Literature jury
approached the podium
she talked about how much kid
s love to read,
how they found books through family,
friends, librarians,
the people who would read aloud to them. . . .
Walter looked at me and arched an eyebrow
he and I wrote for the kids
who didn’t have those people
children with scars
inside and out, kids whose childhoods
disappeared in the rearview mirror
a long time ago
he leaned forward and whispered, “We’re screwed”
which made me laugh, we clapped
and cheered for Kimberly
because she wrote a great book, too,
then Walter poured me a glass of wine
first one of the evening but not the last
we toasted each other
we celebrated writing for the kids
the world doesn’t want to see
earlier, when the student journalists
interviewed us
one commented about the friendly vibe
of the Fab Five Finalists, asked
“Aren’t you supposed to be competitors?”
Walter took the mic and smiled
“No,” he said. “Not competitors.
We’re coconspirators, and we like it that way.”
That was when I knew I was home.
tsunami
tens of thousands speak
words ruffling the surface of the sea
into whitecaps, they whisper
into the shoulder of my sweater
they mail
tweet, cry
direct-message
hand me notes
folded into shards
when no one is watching
sharing memories and befuddlement
broken dreams and sorrow
they struggle in the middle
of the ocean, storms battering
grabbing for sliced life jackets
driftwood
flotsam and jetsam from downed
unfound planes, sunken ships
and other disasters
if they can keep their heads up
they swim for the nearby
Melindas
to help them save
themselves from drowning
in that hungry sea of despair
as they lift up their sisters
and brothers
and those who claim their space
beyond old definitions
they tell their stories
and speak their truth
earthquakes in deep water
send ripples to the surface
that crave the shore
SHOUT Page 8