A Maze Me Read online

  my sentence is incomplete?

  Please,

  live with me in the open slope

  of a question mark.

  Don’t answer it!

  Curl up in a comma

  that says more, and more, and more . . .

  Big Head, Big Face

  (what my brother said to me)

  If your head had been smaller

  maybe you woulda had less thoughts in it,

  maybe you wouldn’t have so many troubles.

  This is just a guess but seems to me

  like a little drawer only hold a few spoons

  and you can always find the one you need

  while a big drawer jammed with tongs

  strings corks junky stuff receipts birthday cards

  you never gonna look at

  scrambled and mixed so one day

  you

  open that drawer

  poke your hand in and big knife go

  through your palm

  you didn’t even know a knife was IN there,

  well, that’s why I think

  it might not be so bad to have a little head

  with just a few thoughts few memories few hopes

  maybe if only one little one came true

  that be enough for you.

  Supple Cord

  My brother, in his small white bed,

  held one end.

  I tugged the other

  to signal I was still awake.

  We could have spoken,

  could have sung

  to one another,

  we were in the same room

  for five years,

  but the soft cord

  with its little frayed ends

  connected us

  in the dark,

  gave comfort

  even if we had been bickering

  all day.

  When he fell asleep first

  and his end of the cord

  dropped to the floor,

  I missed him terribly,

  though I could hear his even breath

  and we had such long and separate lives

  ahead.

  Every Day

  My hundred-year-old next-door neighbor told me:

  every day is a good day if you have it.

  I had to think about that a minute.

  She said, Every day is a present

  someone left at your birthday place at the table.

  Trust me! It may not feel like that

  but it’s true. When you’re my age

  you’ll know. Twelve is a treasure.

  And it’s up to you

  to unwrap the package gently,

  lift out the gleaming hours

  wrapped in tissue,

  don’t miss the bottom of the box.

  The Bucket

  A small girl with braids

  is carrying a bucket

  toward the sea.

  She walks determinedly,

  her red bathing suit

  secure on her hips.

  She seems to know

  exactly what she is doing,

  what she will carry

  in the bucket.

  Nothing can stop her,

  not the sand,

  which tries to swallow

  each tiny foot,

  or the mother,

  calling after her

  with a camera.

  Now she is running,

  waving her arms,

  the small bucket

  thrown free

  into the air!

  Little Chair

  “There’s a cool web of language winds us in. . . .”

  —ROBERT GRAVES

  “I saw great things mirrored in littleness. . . .”

  —EDITH SITWELL

  1

  I didn’t mind so much

  growing out of little girl clothes

  the blue striped shirt

  the corduroy jumper

  giving up Candy Land

  and my doctor’s kit

  but never again to fit

  the turquoise Mexican chair

  with flowers painted on it

  hurt

  I keep it in my room till now

  a throne for the stuffed camel

  Little kids sit on it when they visit

  The straw in the seat is still strong

  The flowers are always blooming

  2

  Miss Ruth Livingston

  who taught first grade for forty-three years

  in Marfa, Texas

  kept a little reading chair

  in front of the windows in her classroom

  Whenever her students finished their work

  they knew they could go over to the little chair

  and read

  It was a safe place

  Their minds could wander anywhere

  I wish everyone in the world had a little chair

  3

  Recently a big cowboy wearing sunglasses

  came to Miss Livingston’s house and asked where

  “that old furniture from our classroom went”

  She’s ninety-seven now

  She still has her china-faced dolls

  from when she was small

  She pointed at the wooden reading chair

  sitting in front of the windows

  in her beautiful living room

  He walked over to the little chair

  with his hands folded

  and silently stood there, stood there

  SECTION TWO

  Secret Hum

  Secret

  How can I be in love with a bus

  going by at 6 A.M.

  when no one I know is riding it?

  Swoosh of tires in the rain—

  the hummingbird in the zinnia patch

  doesn’t find a single flower worth

  sinking her beak into.

  She’s a choosy hummingbird!

  I’m a choosy hummingbird

  All day I dip and dive

  twice as alive

  as yesterday.

  Some Days

  Your handwriting stands

  like a small forest on the page

  You could enter it anywhere

  Your room looks new to you

  maybe you moved a lamp

  arranged a pillow differently

  on the bed

  Such small things

  change a room

  Single candle

  on a desk you finally cleaned

  sharpened pencils waiting

  in a white cup

  I devote myself to short sentences

  Air answers

  Breath remembers

  A streak of light signs the floor

  Eye

  I am keeping my eye on that boy.

  My secret eye, spy eye.

  How does he act when the teacher

  leaves the room?

  If someone makes a mistake,

  what then?

  He picked up Lucy’s pencil when she dropped it.

  Does he recognize my existence?

  Does he see me gleaming

  in my chair?

  I Want to Meet the Girl

  who does not run her country

  the way I do not run my country.

  I want to meet the girl

  who hides in a crowd,

  who laughs into her hand,

  who was not in the picture.

  The girl who stands back

  after being introduced

  by her parents

  in a way she would not choose.

  Who turns her head to the side

  so she doesn’t miss seeing what’s there.

  Where is she?

  In the School Cafeteria

  Your face makes me feel like a lighthouse

  beaming across waves.

  We don’t even know one another,

  yet each day I am looking for your face.

  Walking slowly among tabl
es, I balance my tray,

  glancing to the side.

  You’re not here today.

  Are you sick?

  Why are you absent?

  And why, among all these faces,

  is there only one I want to see?

  Whatever the reason

  your absence is not excused

  by me.

  Crush

  A girl wrote a letter on an orange

  and placed it on a doorstep.

  That day the sky tasted fresh as mint.

  Where He Is

  Last night at sunset

  two jet trails made a giant X in the sky

  right over our city.

  I was reading Spanish in the porch swing

  when my neighbor walking her two dogs

  pointed up, shouting happily,

  “X marks the spot! YOU ARE HERE!”

  White trails against dusky blue.

  I stared at her. I said, “You are here too.

  We are all here.”

  And I got goose bumps.

  Because I knew the boy I haven’t met yet

  is here too, somewhere close by,

  and I knew he was looking up.

  I could feel him looking.

  Groups of People Going Places Together

  One is always walking

  in front of the others.

  Maybe this is the one

  who really wanted to come.

  They didn’t all want to come,

  that’s for sure.

  Someone is pushing a baby carriage.

  The baby is sleeping, sunburned,

  or fussy.

  Maybe the baby didn’t want to come.

  The baby would rather be

  crawling around on a rug.

  That girl would rather be home reading.

  Very little conversation

  is going on.

  Maybe two people tipping their heads together

  asking why they came.

  No one smiles at me or anyone else going by.

  They are clumsy, carrying towels, jugs,

  beach bags, hats.

  It is hard to walk in a group.

  Sifter

  When our English teacher gave

  our first writing invitation of the year,

  Become a kitchen implement

  in 2 descriptive paragraphs, I did not think

  butcher knife or frying pan,

  I thought immediately

  of soft flour showering through the little holes

  of the sifter and the sifter’s pleasing circular

  swishing sound, and wrote it down.

  Rhoda became a teaspoon,

  Roberto a funnel,

  Jim a muffin tin

  and Forrest a soup pot.

  We read our paragraphs out loud.

  Abby was a blender. Everyone laughed

  and acted giddy but the more we thought about it,

  we were all everything in the whole kitchen,

  drawers and drainers,

  singing teapot and grapefruit spoon

  with serrated edges, we were all the

  empty cup, the tray.

  This, said our teacher, is the beauty of metaphor.

  It opens doors.

  What I could not know then

  was how being a sifter

  would help me all year long.

  When bad days came

  I would close my eyes and feel them passing

  through the tiny holes.

  When good days came

  I would try to contain them gently

  the way flour remains

  in the sifter until you turn the handle.

  Time, time. I was a sweet sifter in time

  and no one ever knew.

  I Said to Dana’s Mother

  I can’t wait to be older and free.

  We were sitting at Dana’s kitchen table,

  working on our history project.

  Free of schoolwork, able to choose

  the ways I spend my days,

  but Dana’s mom turned her face

  to me sharply.

  “Missy,” she said (not my name),

  “you’ll never be as free

  as you are now.”

  Then she turned back to

  cooking dinner.

  The air felt thinner in the room.

  Thinner, and sad.

  Can air feel sad?

  Because of Poems

  Words have secret parties.

  Verbs, adjectives, and nouns

  meet outside their usual boundaries,

  wearing hats.

  MOODY feels doubtful about attending

  and pauses near the door, ready to escape.

  But she’s fascinated by DAZZLE.

  BEFRIEND throws a comforting arm

  around her shoulder.

  LOST and REMEMBER huddle

  in the same corner, trading

  phone numbers.

  I serve punch.

  Having Forgotten to Bring a Book, She Reads the Car Manual Aloud

  Do not sit on the edge of the open moonroof.

  Do not operate the moonroof if falling snow

  has caused it to freeze shut.

  (I thought it was a sunroof, actually.)

  Do not place coins into the accessory socket.

  The cup holder should not be used while driving.

  Well, when then?

  While parked at home?

  Perhaps at midnight, with insomnia?

  Hi, Mom, I think I’ll just go have a glass of milk

  in the driveway.

  If you need to dispose of the air bag

  or scrap the vehicle . . .

  Never allow anyone to ride in the luggage area.

  Do not operate the defogger longer than necessary.

  Please remove necktie or scarf while working on

  engine.

  Never jack up the vehicle more than necessary.

  A running engine can be dangerous.

  If the Shoe Doesn’t Fit

  you take it off

  of course you take it off

  it doesn’t worry you

  it isn’t your shoe

  On the Same Day My Parents Were Arguing

  Down by the quiet little river

  between the old missions,

  white cranes stand listening.

  It is hard to tell if they are awake.

  Their elegant necks barely turn

  as another crane floats low

  among them, touching ground.

  One dips a beak swiftly into water

  then springs back.

  What have they seen across the long sky?

  It hides inside the layered feathers

  of their heads.

  Changed

  They said something mean about me

  and didn’t notice it was mean.

  So my heart wandered

  into the rainy night without them

  and found a canopy

  to hide under.

  My eyes started

  seeing through things.

  Like gauze.

  Old self through new self.

  My flexible body

  went backwards

  and forwards

  in time.

  It’s hard to describe but true:

  I grew another head

  with better ideas

  inside my old head.

  Hairdo

  Because of the hair on the head

  of the girl in front of me in school,

  daily I travel slopes and curves.

  I detour past the ribbon.

  The clip is a dam.

  I want to pluck it out—

  surprise!

  Inventing new methods for parting

  on a blue-lined page, I make

  math go away.

  Embrace the math of hair.

  Layers and levels of hair.

  Some hair grows into ropes.

&nb
sp; Rivers of waves, blunt cut.

  Oh what will I make of my messy messy hair?

  Message in the Thin Wind Before Bedtime

  Stiff lip won’t help.

  Stiff arm breaks too.

  You need soft touch.

  Try on soft shoe.

  Hard voice cracks back.

  Hard head heats up.

  Mark that sharp note.

  Bypass “So what?”

  Tender heart lasts long.

  Who looked? Who heard?

  Let those grips go.

  Birds get last word.

  High Hopes

  It wasn’t that they were so

  high, exactly,

  they were more

  low-down,

  close-to-the-ground,

  I could rub them

  the way you touch a cat

  that rubs against your ankles

  even if he isn’t yours.

  So yes I feel lonely without them.

  Now that I know the truth,

  that I only dreamed someone liked me,

  the cat has curled up in a bed of leaves

  against the house and I still have to do

  everything I had to do before

  without a secret hum

  inside.

  Bad Dream

  None of the cats

  will let me touch them

  I bring clean bowls

  of fresh milk

  They won’t drink it

  till I’m back in the house

  Tuxedo cat looks up

  I’m at the window

  Flick! He ran

  into the bushes

  Is this what it feels like

  to grow older and return to

  the neighborhood

  you once knew?

  SECTION THREE

  Magical Geography

  People I Admire

  poke their shovels into the dirt.

  Whatever they turn over interests them,

  not just what they plant.

  If there are roots or worms,

  if the soil is darker, or mottled,

  maybe the cap of an old bottle,

  a snail, an ancient tunnel

  left by a burrowing mole.

  They know there is plenty of ground.

  Every place has a warm old name.

  The plumed grasses bend backwards