Free Verse (17 page)

PHYLLIS

Says she'll still love me

even when the other kid

comes to stay next month.

I have no rights to Phyllis,

so I don't know why I'm sad.

UNSAID

There are many rules

to writing good poetry.

I don't always know

how to fit inside those rules.

Sometimes things get left unsaid.

MICHAEL

Why do all the things

I write come back to Michael?

Why do all the things

I write come back to Michael?

There is no one named Michael.

HARLESS HOUSEHOLD

Nobody is sleeping.

Most of us are weeping.

There are secrets not worth keeping.

NIGHT FIGHTS

Hubert and Shirley scream and howl,

yell some words that are very foul,

then one or the other throws in the towel.

FALLING APART

Hubert finally goes back to work.

The girls are bouncing off the walls, berserk.

Even Shirley's lost her smirk.

AUGUST

Summer waves the edges

of Phyllis's trimmed hedges.

We're all balanced on ledges.

MIKEY

I miss baking muffins and playing with the dog.

I can't think clearly with him gone.

I am lost in a fog.

MICHAEL

When I think of my older brother

dying of smoke inhalation,

I can't breathe and I can't rhyme.

BACK TO SCHOOL

For the first two days, everyone is thrilled

to see each other as the doors are sealed.

Even in the warm air, I feel chilled.

WHAT I DID

on my summer vacation

by sasha harless

i forgot how to use

the following things

punctuation

capitalization

and the sound

of my voice

i forgot how to

cook muffins

i forgot how to babysit

and how to clean out sheds

and how to save money for guitars

and i forgot again and again

which house i live in

THERE IS A NEW KID

next door, and she is

Mikey's age, and she is

beautiful, with

calm, combed hair

and sweet, dimpled cheeks

and, as far as I can tell,

normal eating habits.

Phyllis shines with love.

The two of them invite me over,

but I shake my head and stay on Hubert's front porch,

alone except for his work boots.

ASSIGNMENT

Now that school's in

and I still won't talk,

Mr. Powell asks me to

write something down,

and my new English teacher

asks me to write something down.

Mr. Powell wants my goals for the year.

Mr. Hart wants my goals for English class,

and what I think a fair grading system would be,

and what I hope to learn and accomplish.

It seems like a lot of faith to put

in a silent eighth grader.

Isn't he the one

who went to college

for this?

THE STORY OF MY LIFE

This is the assignment

for the second week of school:

we are required to write our history,

the story of our lives. I watch

my classmates folded over their notebooks.

I watch pencils scratch. I watch heads get scratched.

This boy in black, he is looking at the ceiling

and smiling

as if there is a great secret written there.

I think his life has been interesting.

I think I would like to read his story.

The girls in the corner

look lost. You can't understand

what makes a good story

if you've never starred in one,

or at least been a particularly memorable

(sometimes tragic)

supporting character.

INTERVENTION

At least that's what it feels like

the day Jaina and Anthony corner me

by the lockers in the English wing.

“We're worried about you, Sasha.”

“You still haven't given me a poem for the contest.

We all lost the one in May. We've got to

kick butt in the August round!”

“Right . . .” Jaina looks at him

like he's grown another head.

“And also, you don't talk anymore.”

They maybe should have planned

their intervention a little better.

I don't say anything,

and Jaina shrugs, and walks slowly away.

“I'm here if you need me,”

she says as she goes,

but she gets farther away as she says it.

When she's gone, Anthony waits

and does this half smile, like he already knows

what I'm about to hand him.

He gives my notebook back after class the next day,

with a note written on the first blank page:

Unless you stop me, I'm sending three of these to the contest.

Please don't stop me.

I'm glad it's still you in there.

Now that summer's over,

there's no newsletter to help.

I have to figure out for myself

how to say what needs to be said.

—STARTED AUGUST 26

ON WEEKENDS

We look for two Michael Harlesses

on the streets of Beckley

(the kids throwing Frisbees,

and popping balloons,

and chasing each other,

splashing through the fountain).

We look for Mikey and we look—

I look

for my Michael,

who can't possibly have left me

this alone

for this long.

POINTLESS?

Search

without end.

Kicking through stones,

peering into every face.

Failing.

THERE IS A COLLEGE CAMPUS HERE

And I dream of graduating

and I dream of seeing Mikey graduate

and I dream of both of us living life happy,

free of our sad past.

Today is not that day.

Today I hang flier after flier after flier

on power poles.

AUTHORITIES

They say they have not given up on him,

but every week the spotlight continues to dim,

and hope spreads thin.

WHAT I HEARD SOMEONE SAY

“Poor folks,

thinking that kid

will ever come back.

That kid is dead, man.”

SECRET

I am secretly a bad person.

I am secretly a bad cousin.

I am secretly awful.

Let me tell you why.

I have come

to expect, to rely on,

to enjoy,

our trips up

Beckley way.

STEPS OF THE BECKLEY COURTHOUSE

I sit and wait to be picked up.

Hubert is checking on some things

he doesn't want me to hear.

There are fluffy springtime clouds

in the late summer sky,

and kids shuffle by

like they have all the

time in the world.

A kid about fifteen or sixteen

walks from the Go-Mart with a

Snickers bar and a Coke.

One bite gone. Then, later,

a sip. Like the treat

and the perfect afternoon

will last
forever.

I have been too wild.

I will rein in my poems.

I will write haiku.

—SEPTEMBER 2

NOT ME

We got grades today.

It is the moment of truth

for people who care.

C-MINUS

I was supposed to

write about my own life, not

other people's lives.

NOTES

Jaina passes one

to Lisa and Lisa laughs

and writes her one back.

TODAY

Windowpanes rattled

with anger and thunder when

the sun went away.

JAINA'S QUESTION

“Sasha, why don't you

talk no more?” she asks again.

Wish I could tell her.

—SEPTEMBER 9

This

is the

worst day I've

had in a long

time.

Darkness

is everywhere.

In the sky.

Here in my head.

Midnight.

Home

was Mikey.

Home was Phyllis;

was Ben, Judy, and

Michael.

Teacher

in math

thinks I'm stupid.

She tells me she

cares.

Rules

of poetry

insist I shouldn't

break the cinquain pattern.

Who the hell says?

Panic

is sneaky.

Creeps up slowly

like a hunting cat.

Pounces.

—SEPTEMBER 16

VISITORS

A knock at the door!

Sometimes the police visit

to keep us informed.

Sometimes it's Pastor Ramey,

who brings toys for my cousins.

SCHOOL HALLS

Anthony walks me

from English to my locker

in total silence.

“You okay?” he asks at last.

I nod a quick lie at him.

SCHOOL HALLS (PART TWO)

Jaina walks with me

from Spanish to my locker,

nervously speaking.

She tries to fill the quiet,

but does not know what to say.

SCHOOL HALLS (PART THREE)

I walk my own self

from my locker to the bus,

my head full of words.

They rattle around in there,

but they refuse to shake loose.

How many lines? Write three.

The middle is different. It doesn't rhyme.

The middle one is me.

—SEPTEMBER 23

THE ORANGE BOTTLE

It's for anxiety. I'm supposed to take it every day.

It makes my mouth dry and my head ache.

I still don't have anything to say.

WHAT THEY MEAN BY “ANXIETY”

is that sometimes the classroom gets too loud

and I'm afraid Mikey will call for me and I won't hear him,

so I get up and leave, and that's not allowed.

THE POLICE COME AGAIN

On foot, I leave school, a place I'd rather avoid.

It's dark outside and in the house when I get home.

The police should be worried, but instead they're annoyed.

SHIRLEY'S PUNISHMENT

“We tried being nice so's you wouldn't go roam.

We had the patience of Job, but the Good Lord knows that didn't work.

You're grounded from writing them
poems.”

I         need

my

words

It     is     too

dark     to     see     too     dark     to

        write     but

            this way

shirley won't catch
me

IN TROUBLE

Days and days, I walk,

not talking and not writing.

I am a shadow.

SHIRLEY

I think she thinks she's

helping when she tries to be

strict like a parent.

CRAZY

Yesterday I thought

about following in the

footsteps of Aster.

The orange bottle has my name.

The ones in the cabinet have other names.

OCTOBER 2

Grounding

is supposed

to be a

week, but Hubert takes

pity.

SAVED

Hubert makes Shirley let me off the hook.

I'm glad. It's time for poetry club.

I'm going to need my notebook.

RELIEF

I'm relieved to have my notebook.

I'm relieved to have my pen.

I'm relieved that when I have a thought

I can write it down again.

ANTHONY TRIES

And tries and tries and tries

to get some words out of me.

I try, too, but they will not rise

from down in the depths of me.

MY SCHEDULE

Work around the house

with Hubert on Mondays

Mr. Powell on Tuesdays

Beckley for therapy Wednesdays

Thursdays are poetry club

Fridays I work at the pawnshop

to replace the window

I don't remember

breaking while

I was barred

from writing

poetry.

SPY IN THE GRASS

Hubert says,

“We're treading water, Phyllis.

She's working off the window uptown,

and the only reason they didn't suspend her

for leaving school that day is she's . . .

special.

That's what they're calling her.

Special.

She's taking them dang pills

that are supposed to calm her down

and I don't see them making a

danged bit of difference

and she still ain't spoke a

word.”

There is silence while, I'm sure, Phyllis is

patting Hubert's hand or

squeezing his shoulder.

I scratch at the window frame

and rotted wood comes off under my fingernails.

Underneath are termites.

“Keep treading,” Phyllis says.

“That little girl needs us

to keep her head above water.”

Then I am deeply embarrassed

and deeply grateful

and I stop listening at the window

and follow Stella through the grass.

OCTOBER 8

Today is Mikey's tenth birthday.

I want to bake muffins.

But the pilot light

won't stay lit

and then there is a

sopping mess of batter on the stove

and a sobbing mess of girl on the floor.

I HAVE STOPPED

corralling

my poems

by form.

They run

loose like

wild dogs.

SIX DAYS OF BEING LEFT IN PEACE TO MOURN MIKEY

Shirley takes the babies

and goes to stay

with her mother

for six days.

When she comes home,

I am lying on the couch

watching the fruit flies

circle the broken ceiling fan.

She shakes her head

and walks into the kitchen,

where she throws out the black bananas

and the green wheat bread.

She has to see the tears rolling

sideways into my hair, and how Hubert

will not hold his head up, but she

does not ask us if we are okay.

She pushes back the curtains

and opens the window

to dump the moldy coffee,

six days old, from the pot.

She mutters under her breath,

“This is a shame,

is what this is.”