Overheard

for ReadWritePoem March 31, 2008
We had to eavesdrop then write a prose poem.
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Standing out in the hallway between classes I heard one guy say to another:

“Hey, man, your hair looks especially fro-ish today.”
And that reminded me of my own hair when I was their age.
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When I was sixteen, I’d do anything for straight hair. Before dances Anita would get the ironing board out, lay a dish towel on top of my curls, put a hot iron on it, and I would pull my straight hair out. I’d shake my head back and forth to make my hair fly like a comet tail.

In those Beatles-crazy days, I used U.N.C.U.R.L. and Curl Free to look like everyone else. It never worked.

I’d wrap my freshly-Prelled hair around my head using it as a huge roller then sit under a space-suit-looking hair dryer for a couple hours and pray that it wouldn’t rain or get humid. It always did.

In college, once, on a rainy morning, I taped the middle third of my bangs to my nose, and used clips to hold the other thirds straight against the sides of my head until I made it to class. I huddled under an umbrella to hide this straightening device. Wouldn’t you know, a guy approached me from behind, put his arm around me, and asked if he could share my umbrella. I tried to hide my face but when he saw the alien walking with him, he took off.

Now that I’m older, I let my shoulder-length hair have its own way. Remember those banana curls your mother would spend hours creating by wrapping your hair around her fingers? Mine does that automatically.

Last week, I had to go to the garage my husband visits after work each afternoon, to get something from him. After I left, one of the other guys in there asked him if I had dreadlocks!

And tonight, when my logger husband got home, he buried his face in my hair and said, “Mmmm, you smell good.” I said, “After a day at school?” He said simply, “You smell better than a skidder.”

Just a small victory for a curly-headed misfit.

Out of this World

for Sunday Scribblings March 30, 2008
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Start with French vanilla
ice cream. Scoop out
a good-sized moon
of it and let it mound

above the sides
of the bowl. Then
sprinkle stars
of walnuts all over.

After that drizzle
pure, light amber
maple syrup
like sun rays

over the whole thing.
Finally, let your spoon
orbit looking for a perfect
spot to land for an
out-of-this-world treat.

Gamble for Writers' Island

Lucky

When we went to Foxwoods
a few years ago,
my mom had such a successful
time playing the Lucky
Seven machine

I remember the grin
on her face when I
found her in the non-
smoking casino
standing like the Statue
of Liberty with her hand
up flagging me down.
And there were
the three red sevens
lined up like soldiers.

After she was paid her 1,199
coins,
we meandered around
other casino rooms
and eventually settled
at a different bank
of machines: she in
front of a Lucky Seven
and me a 5X Diamond
a few seats away from her.

I can still remember
her calling out to me
every time she won:
the three green sevens,
the three purple sevens,
and twice more
the three red sevens.

Everyone around her
was cheering her on.

The only ones she
didn’t get were the pink
sevens that paid 500 coins.

Just before leaving
we walked through
one more time
and she put a $20 bill
into yet another
Lucky Seven machine
and, of course, this
time she got the pinks.

I should have known
then that this winning
day was going to be
our last good time
together at a casino.

But there was no message
in the clanging bells
announcing her success
that less than a year
later she’d be in the hospital
too weak to even
put her own cannula
into her trach
never mind a quarter
into a Lucky Seven
slot machine.

Novel

Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult

for Totally Optional Prompts March 27, 2008
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This novel is a fictionalized account of a Columbine-like incident in a school in New Hampshire. What’s interesting is that the author doesn’t take sides. She presents the good guys and the bad guys equally so that the line between the two sometimes gets blurry. It shows, to a terrifying degree, the consequences of bullying.

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The first thing I do
is rub my fingers
over the raised letters
of the author’s name.

She’s a friend by now.
We’ve shared many pajama parties
with me eating the popcorn
of her words.

Then I hold the book
in my right hand
and rifle the pages
with my left

letting the scent
of the paper, like
freshly laundered sheets,
fly into my imagination.

I open the book
and read the first sentence,
“By the time you read this,
I hope to be dead”
and I’m hooked
on metaphors that burst
like fireworks
(the tunnel of communication
between them slowly
bricked shut)

and characters I already know.
(transforming herself into the person
she needed to be before leaving
the house)

and
(when he touched her,
Josie imagined herself
vanishing in a puff of steam)

I become the novel;
each sentence I swallow
enters me
and changes me.

By the time I finish,
I’ve been a murderer,
a mother,
a teacher,

a detective,
a bully,
a rapist
a puff of steam.

I close the book
and resist hugging it.
Instead, I feel
the embossed letters

again like a blind
person caressing
Braille, like a child
reading the weather

of her mother’s face.

Green

for ReadWritePoem March 24, 2008
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I stand in the office
of the motel we own
and watch our newest guests
get out of their vehicle.

Both people have cigarettes
in their mouths.
They unload their bags
then throw their butts

on the ground.
I have buckets with sand
placed around the building
for cigarette disposal

but, instead, they leave
those flattened white stubs
on my clean driveway,
looking like broken

crayons left in the sun
to melt. I retrieve my long-
handled dustpan and broom
then go outside

to sweep up their litter
and deposit it
in one of the sand buckets.
Out of the corner

of my eye, I see the woman
staring at me from their room.
She quickly closes
the curtains.

Surreal

for Totally Optional Prompts March 20, 2008
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Every Year, Just Before School Begins

I am wearing
a Red Sox cap
with the visor
pulled low
shading my eyes

in the shower.
That’s why I can’t
find the shampoo
or conditioner
or soap.

Finally, I just get out
of the tub
and wipe myself
with the rug
since my towel
has disappeared.

Then, what to wear…
I stand in front
of my closet
looking for my black
skirt
but can only find
my dead father’s
clothes.

I dress in his pants
that hang
on me like elephant
legs. I need
a belt
but can only find
a necklace.
That will have to do.

I walk downstairs
with just my bra
and those pants
on and start making
my lunch
but the bread is all
gone so I pack
the toaster in my book-
bag, instead.

At school
no one notices
I am only half dressed.
My kids are too busy
throwing things
around the room,
making out in corners,
dancing to a live band
that has set up
in front of my desk.

I holler.
I scream.
I whistle.
They ignore me.
An alarm clock
whizzes through
the air.
I catch it
and feel the round
snooze button.

I push it
and settle back
into the cranberry
sheets of my waterbed,

the August sun
outlining the shade
in neon reality.

Money Understood Tangled

for 3WW March 19, 2008
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Sheets tangled, she left
with his money in her purse.
Just sex: understood.