Yellow Mini Read online

  circles around

  the piano

  like an island.

  A flock of birds

  flutters inside.

  My debut con-

  cert recital.

  Don’t think

  too hard, just walk

  Composed, on high

  heels, straight to

  The bench, con-

  fident, expert,

  Sitting straight-backed

  inhale, exhale,

  Let it come, with-

  out thought. Instinct

  Taking over,

  years of training,

  Memory, my

  best friend, music,

  My calling, my

  passion, my joy.

  Heresy

  Christopher

  Now, when I

  think of

  you,

  alone

  in my room

  at night,

  I wish I had

  a telescope

  that

  could see through

  space and

  time

  straight to

  where you

  are.

  Galileo

  used his

  own

  to prove the

  sun was the

  centre

  of the universe

  and got locked

  up

  for heresy. Would

  it be heresy

  now

  if I could prove

  that everything

  inside me

  turns

  around

  you?

  As a Dad

  Annabelle

  It funny to think that Christopher

  is the same age

  as my father was

  when he fathered me.

  I try to picture Christopher as a dad,

  pushing a stroller,

  changing a diaper,

  playing this little piggy,

  All the things my father never did

  with me, because

  he never even knew

  that I’d been born.

  I wonder if it’s as strange for him

  as it is for me, not knowing

  what I look like

  or who I am, but

  It can’t be. Since he doesn’t

  know about me, he doesn’t

  scan the faces of sixteen-

  year-old girls, hoping to find me.

  It must have been hard

  for my mom to hide

  being pregnant

  from my father.

  Even though he didn’t go to her school,

  he’d still have been around town,

  at movies, or restaurants,

  or the park.

  Did she jump behind mailboxes or

  into stores to avoid him, or did

  she just walk by and pretend

  not to know him?

  She told me she barely knew him

  so maybe she didn’t need to

  hide, maybe he wouldn’t

  have recognized her.

  If so, the big bump in her belly was

  nothing to him, a meaningless

  shape, something he’d

  look right past.

  That scenario bothers me the most.

  I prefer to picture him stopping

  and staring, his mouth

  falling open,

  His conscience prickling him,

  every thought in his head

  turning toward the

  reality of me,

  There inside my mother’s womb,

  curled up sucking my little

  thumb, my face already

  resembling his.

  Stiracchiando

  Holding back

  Mary

  I don’t know where it

  came from,

  This ability to play,

  maybe

  From a recessive gene

  hidden

  Way back in the family

  pool.

  My parents are not musical­—

  my dad

  Barely taps his toes to

  music

  And my mom is

  tone deaf.

  Maybe that’s why she thinks

  I can

  Turn it on

  on command,

  Like she’s the organ

  grinder

  and I’m her faithful

  monkey,

  Penny in the slot and here

  we go.

  But it’s not that

  simple.

  The music stirs in-

  side me

  Almost like a chick

  tapping

  On its shell when it’s

  ready

  To emerge, its eyes closed

  against

  The starkness of the light,

  like me

  Up on the stage at school

  first time.

  When people want to pull

  music

  Out of me it makes me

  angry

  Because the music is part

  of me,

  It’s not detachable, like a

  fake limb.

  Something She Doesn’t Know

  Annabelle

  I see the way Stacey stares at me

  and Christopher like she a) can’t

  believe I have a boyfriend and b)

  can’t believe it’s Christopher.

  Sometimes, I see her

  whisper to her pack

  and they giggle

  and look over.

  But other times, when she’s alone,

  I catch her looking another

  way, like she’s trying to

  figure something out.

  It might be because Christopher

  can’t take his eyes off me,

  or his hands, both are always

  touching me, circling me,

  While Mark is never near her

  anymore, not like before

  when they were like vines,

  constantly entwined. Now

  He jerks like he wants

  to shake her loose, like

  snow from branches

  or flies from food.

  She cracks up when he does it

  like it’s funny, while Mark’s dark

  eyes stare dead ahead, like she’s

  nowhere in his line of vision.

  Once he left, leaving her looking

  like a fool, her arm in mid-air,

  like a character in a sci-fi film

  whose partner’s been sucked away.

  Part of me wanted to laugh, but

  I was sorry for her too, especially

  when she had to shrug

  and act like it didn’t matter.

  THE KEY

  Mark

  This time,

  I brought the spare key

  for my father’s cab.

  I thought if I buried it on the land

  he loved so much, it would be

  like he was finally here, living

  the life he wanted,

  Hiking in the woods

  fishing in the stream,

  breathing deep to fill his lungs

  with mountain air, opening

  his arms to embrace space,

  the thing he wanted more than anything,

  Maybe more than me
because I did nothing

  but make his space smaller, shrinking it

  with anger, filling it

  with words my cousins in Lebanon

  would never use with their father.

  The key slides under the rock

  and the cold metal turns hot

  in my fingers, as if

  the earth has been warming up

  like an oven to receive it.

  The only thing that ruins it is Stacey

  waiting in the car, cold and cranky,

  expecting me to share something with her,

  cursing me, making me feel like

  the world’s worst screw-up boyfriend.

  The guys at school think we drive out to do it

  because Stacey’s so hot. They think

  I can have her whenever, wherever I want,

  that there is nothing to stop me.

  Nothing except my father’s voice describing

  the girl of his dreams for me: someone

  sweet and pure who wants nothing more

  than a home in the suburbs and two kids,

  who’ll go to church on Sundays, keep

  my house sparkling clean and make roast

  lamb when he and my mom come to visit.

  Back Again

  Stacey

  When I recognized the road,

  twisting, snow-topped,

  my heart stopped.

  Mark didn’t even want me to come.

  He told me to stay at rehearsal,

  but I couldn’t let him go

  without me

  because I knew if

  I did it would be

  over because he

  already had that far

  away look in his eyes,

  telling me he wanted to be

  alone.

  He parked the same place

  as last time, by a pile of logs

  marking the dead end of the road

  and without a word

  disappeared into the trail,

  shoulders hunched,

  determined.

  Two whole hours I sat in the car

  freezing, rubbing my hands together,

  wondering what the hell I was doing

  tagging along on this mad journey

  to nowhere with some guy who’s

  obviously going completely

  crazy

  When I could be doing hair and makeup,

  stuff I’m good at, instead of sitting here

  like a fifth wheel in some little car

  in the woods, wondering what would happen

  if Mark never returned and nobody even knew

  where I was, leaving me completely

  stranded.

  Pregnant

  Annabelle's Mom

  At graduation, the Principal placed my diploma

  in my left hand, shook my right, and said

  “All the best in the future,” fixing his eyes

  somewhere around my middle, as if he knew

  My future was in there, growing, the baby

  already eight weeks old, with eyes of its own,

  toes and fingers and a tiny heart

  beating, beating, beating.

  I knew his words didn’t mean studies

  and career, but diapers and cracked nipples,

  things that terrified me and had me

  teetering in indecision,

  Unsure of what I was going to do,

  my whole body numb, as though

  what was going on inside me

  had turned me completely dumb.

  Months later, still small enough to hide

  my bump, I felt the first flutter

  of baby kick, like a fish flicking

  in the glass bowl of my belly

  And I jumped, knocking the bowl

  of popcorn off my lap, spilling

  its contents onto the floor,

  like an omen of bigger spills to come.

  My mom listened without a word of reproach,

  she knew the gods had conspired to make love

  hard for girls and easier for boys, who were

  let off the hook the minute the deed was done,

  But my dad crumpled, as though a giant crane

  had dropped a concrete block

  on his head, his whole body collapsing

  under the weight of the news.

  In the end it was just the three of us,

  me, my mom and Annabelle, a chain

  of girls, harmonious even through

  night feedings and early changes,

  My mom pitching in like a trooper,

  loving every talcum-powdered moment

  in a way I’m not sure I would if that

  were to happen now with Annabelle.

  So Perfect

  Annabelle

  Last night my mom told me that when I was a baby

  she would bring me to the park and sit

  in the shade while I slept.

  The older moms would stare and whisper,

  trying to figure out if she was the mom

  or the sitter.

  She couldn’t join in their talk

  about feeding and sleeping

  and changing.

  She had to hide me, when every bone in her body

  wanted to lift me up and show me off

  to the world.

  At home she couldn’t stop looking at me, wondering

  how she’d made something

  so perfect,

  When even her simple grad dress

  with the braided straps had

  stumped her.

  I know why she told me this story.

  LOST

  Stacey’s Dad

  One daughter already lost

  to the west coast:

  rocky mountains

  grizzly bears

  avalanches

  crazy cults.

  The other is here but:

  running wild

  faking nice

  skipping school

  going nowhere

  breaking my heart.

  In my wallet is a picture of:

  both together

  matching dresses

  licking ice cream

  moustache smiles

  simpler times.

  I’m getting too old for all this:

  worrying

  regretting

  fretting

  sweating

  pretending.

  I just want to coast into old age:

  quietly

  gracefully

  comfortably

  easily

  peacefully.

  Instead of wondering if I was too:

  permissive

  disconnected

  undisciplined

  inattentive

  much to blame.

  Deck The Halls

  Annabelle

  Christmas is the best time

  to make our point,

  Christmas is the worst time

  to make our point.

  People shop and shop and we try

  to stop them

  and make them think about what

  they’re buying.

  Christopher wears a Santa hat

  and rings a bell

  to pull them over, like he’s

  part of the scene.

  Up close they see his Santa’s little helper

  button, showing a dark kid

  stuffing a bear that also wears

  a Santa hat.

&nbs
p; Mr. Dawe thought it was an awesome

  scheme. He likes the way

  our minds are becoming devious

  and subversive.

  I like the way Mr. Dawe is not a teacher

  we have to obey

  but another person handing out flyers

  to dumb shoppers.

  I like the way he’s willing to take

  this chance and go

  against the administration by taking

  us to the mall.

  Last meeting, he told us about a conference

  on youth and fashion,

  called No Your Clothes, right in the heart

  of New York City.

  Our group is going to fundraise and take

  the bus to Manhattan

  where we’ll stay in the dorms of NYU

  near Washington Square.

  We’ll do workshops by day and sightsee at night.

  It sounds great, but

  I don’t know if my mom will let me go,

  even if we do raise the money.

  Mr. Dawe says I’m old enough to make up

  my own mind, eighteen

  is an arbitrary age and in the middle ages I’d be

  married by now.

  I looked at Christopher when he said that

  and felt myself blush

  as I pictured us fooling around in a haystack,

  husband and wife.

  BACK AGAIN

  Mark

  Back down

  from the

  mountains.

  Back here

  on familiar streets

  looking for

  familiar faces.

  Back where

  I suppose I belong,

  even though these days

  I don’t feel like I belong

  anywhere except in my car.

  Back when

  I was a kid I didn’t think

  much about things like that.

  I just sort of lived day to day

  doing kid stuff like soccer

  and hockey and school projects.

  Back then

  it all seemed easier, like there were

  no cracks in my life, no places where

  my feet kept slipping through, like

  they do now whenever I try to take a step,

  whenever I try to decide how I am going

  to move forward in my life and not

  Backwards

  like I am now, constantly thinking

  of things that happened in the past,

  things with my dad, like the time he

  let me stay home from school and spend

  the day with him in his cab and we couldn’t

  let on to my mom because she’d have flipped,

  especially if she knew that he let me drive the car