about my trouble.
“Time to tell Trey,” says Sethany,
catching me off guard.
I cut my eyes at her.
“Hey! That’s all I got to say
on the subject.”
Which means
she’s just getting started.
“Seth!”
I groan loud enough
for her to hear.
“It’s gonna be rough,
still, the daddy
needs to know.”
On and on she goes.
“I’m not saying
it’s gonna be easy,
but at least you know
God’ll give you the words.”
I snort. “Yeah. If he’s still
talking to me.”
“Ooooh,” says Sethany.
“I see. So, you’re telling me
God forgives murderers,
but can’t forgive you.
Well, that’s a new one.”
Sarcasm aside, she’s got a point.
“Say you’re right,”
I concede,
“so what?”
“Get up in his face
and spit it out,” says Sethany.
“Don’t go shy all of a sudden.”
I nod, whisper, “Okay.”
Then Sethany switches her attention
to new shirts I should
try on.
“Look at this one,” she says,
holding up a green number.
“It’ll bring out your eyes.”
Then, she surprises me
with a hug,
guessing how badly
I need one.
Soft
Soft as fleece,
God’s forgiveness
falls over me
like a quilt,
and this time,
I let it smother
my guilt.
Mister: FYI
The next morning,
I feel strong enough
to carry out my plan.
Today, I’ll tell Trey, I think.
Him first, then Mom.
That settled,
I march into school
and wait by Trey’s locker.
I lean against the door,
close my eyes,
and let the combination lock
dig into my spine-
anything to keep me
from feeling numb.
“I got some treasure in there
I don’t know about?” asks Trey.
I look up, part my lips
and manage, “Hi.”
“Whoa! This mean
you talking to me again?”
Tell him. Go on!
“Trey, I-uhm, I-”
My mouth fails,
my practiced speech
becomes a heap
of dead syllables
crushed between my teeth.
“Cat got your tongue?” says Trey.
I nod, turn away,
but somehow stop myself
from running.
Do it. Do it!
I tell myself,
then turn back,
wrap my tongue
around the truth,
and throw it like a ball,
hard as I can
till it hits home.
“Trey, I’m pregnant.
And it’s yours.”
Ricochet
“I’m too young
to have a kid,
and so, I don’t,”
says Trey.
“You need to take
that fairy tale
to some other fool.”
His words ricochet
inside my head,
hot and deadly.
“There is no one but you,”
I say.
“Oh, yeah? And how do
I know that’s true?
Because you say it?”
Trey slams his locker door
like the period
at the end of his sentence,
and he’s gone.
The bell rings,
and I’m left gasping
in the hall.
Glad there was a wall
to lean on.
Fog
Blinded by fear
masquerading as teardrops,
I feel my way
to the school exit,
and leave, lost,
struggling to register
a new definition
of lonely:
the only company
I can count on.
And, maybe, if I’m lucky,
God.
Odd, that I hardly
feel my feet
as I wander the streets
pointed toward Broadway.
I turn, on automatic pilot,
pass the Audubon Ballroom
and the ghost of Malcolm X,
wishing, if only for a moment-
Lord, forgive me-
wishing I could join him,
that I could simply
disappear.
Movies & Popcorn
It’s Friday night.
Mom sticks her head in the door,
waving a video cassette.
I bet it’s some old-school flick
like Casablanca.
She loves that stuff.
Not me, but I love her.
Plus, its our ritual,
huddling on the sofa
close as bone and skin,
in celebration mode,
ticking off another week gone by
and us alive and well
despite the dangers of these streets,
this world.
Just us girls.
But I can’t risk cuddling anymore.
So when Mom says, “Come here, baby”
and reaches out,
I shout, “Stop calling me baby!”
before I’m sure my mouth
is even working.
Mom leaps back from the punch.
Softer, I say, “I’m sorry. It’s just that
I’m not a baby anymore.”
“Well,” Mom says,
“I guess you’ve grown up, overnight.”
She sighs. “Alright. I stand corrected.”
I nod, wanting to hug her,
wanting to squeeze away the heap of hurt
that makes her shoulders slump,
but if I get too close,
she’ll feel the bump and know.
So I sit at one end of the sofa,
and Mom sits at the other.
For the first time
we’re together,
alone.
Birthday
Mom’s twenty-nine. Again.
So I count out candles for her cake,
numbering her fake age.
I light them, one by one,
wondering why her real age
is such a mystery,
wishing she had a driver’s license
I could check.
Not that her age matters to me,
but I’m curious why
she sometimes gets furious
if I press the point.
Is there some scary story
threaded through the truth,
or have I just been
watching too many movies?
The Last Supper
Last Communion Sunday
marked me as villain.
Never mind that I sat in the pew
with yards of blue cotton-polly
and an oversized vest billowing
out around me.
Cool camouflage, right?
But hardly good enough
for God.
“Prepare your hearts for the feast,”
said Pastor Grant.
“All are welcome at the Lord’s Table.”
I sat up straight to wait
for the holy tray.
I’ve always loved Communion.
“But take heed,” Pastor warned.
“Do not eat the bread, or drink the cup
unworthily.
For some, doing so,
have died.”
I fell back against the pew
as my secret sin gave me two
swift kicks, and sent my heart racing.
Did anybody see?
Mom sat right next to me.
I snuck a peek
but found her lost in prayer.
Eyes closed, she sent the tray my way.
The silver rim all but singed my fingertips.
I quickly passed it on
without taking my share,
too scared to even dare
a look.
Devotions
At long last,
I crack my Bible open,
finger the fragile pages
of Luke, chapter two,
and review the old story of Mary.
Jealous, I read how Joseph
stood by her
even though the kid
wasn’t his.
But the Spirit whispered
Reread the passage,
so I did.
And there it was:
a reminder that God
gave Joseph
a giant push
in the right direction,
sent him a dream,
and an angel, no less.
Details.
Delirious
I look in the mirror,
but don’t recognize
the girl I see.
Suddenly, she’s some
scared-crazy kid
entertaining fleeting notions
of throwing herself
down a long flight of stairs,
or lingering over thoughts
of abortion.
Like I don’t know
how God feels about that.
Like I could forget
for more than two seconds.
But Lord, you tell me:
What, exactly,
am I supposed to do
with a baby?
Missing You
I sit at the computer,
volleyball between my legs.
(Never thought I’d miss those drills!)
To hold the ball still,
I squeeze my thighs.
Someone told me
it’s a good exercise, but who?
Anyway, Seth’s latest IM
says the VB club misses me,
especially after tanking
three games in a row.
“Ouch!” Seth types,
and I reply,
“Maybe I should come back,
baby bump and all.”
LOL pops up on the screen,
and I almost do.
Almost.
Options
I tell Mom I’m quitting
the volleyball club, for now,
so she can save
all the slave wages
she pays out for dues.
Of course, she asks why.
I only half lie,
telling her I’m just too tired
this season.
Tired or not, nothing stops me
from dreaming of a future.
When I graduate,
I want to be a teacher.
At least, that’s what I thought
when I was ten.
Then again,
I could be a librarian.
That way, I would spend my days
swimming in a sea of books.
Before I sign on
for desk duty, though,
I’d like to make
the U.S. volleyball team,
go to the Olympics
and kick some butt.
Truth is,
I haven’t settled on
a profession yet.
All I know for sure is,
when I grow up,
I (still) want to be
a girl with options.
Fama malum quo non aliud velocius ullum.
“Nothing moves faster than gossip.”
– Virgil, Aeneid, IV, 174
Plague
I walk the school halls
behind an invisible wall,
cut off from the rest of the world.
It doesn’t matter
that I carry small.
I’m Pregnant Girl,
not supergeek, not freak,
not girl-jock, or even
plain old Mister.
I’m just a girl in trouble.
Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you
no other identity applies.
And if you’re wise,
you’ll keep your distance.
Hollywoodland
If I see one more
young and giddy
mother-to-be,
I’m slamming that remote
right down the TV’s throat.
Photograph
After homework,
I hurry online,
surf my way to
my picture gallery
and scroll through
last year’s photos
of me and the team.
I sure looked wicked
in my volleyball uniform.
I sure was having
a sweet time.
I sure wish I knew
if either thing
will ever be true
again.
Confession
I waited for her
on the sofa,
let winter’s darkness
sweep into the room
and swallow me whole.
Home, at last, Mom
switches on the light,
notices me fighting
back tears,
and rushes to my side.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
she asks,
her mom-o-meter
off the charts.
Here I am
about to break her heart,
and all she’s worried about
is me.
Wordlessly, I take her hand,
place it on my belly,
and cry until
my eyes run dry.
She holds me whispering,
“It’s okay, baby.
I think I already knew.
I just refused
to believe.”
The Wedding
After hours of bathing,
I cover myself to keep
my swollen belly secret,
then let Hadassah anoint
my head and shoulders
with Rose of Sharon, and other
favorite sweet oils
before I dress.
Less than five minutes later,
a flicker of torchlights
brighten my window
to let me know the procession
is about to begin.
In sweep Joseph’s friends, and mine
ready to spirit me away
to Joseph’s house-
my home to be.
According to tradition, we
form a happy parade
dancing through
the night-drenched streets
of Nazareth
until we reach Joseph’s door.
The crowd pushes us together
so the feasting can begin.
The tables are laden
with many tasty dishes,
but I have no appetite.
“Let him kiss me with the kisses
of his mouth,” quotes one friend.
“Your love is sweeter than wine,”
recites another.
“Arise my love, my fair one,
and come away.”
All the night long,
as wine flows,
psalms and poems,
sweet stories and love songs
swirl about us,
the strains of pipe
and lyre filling the spaces
in between.
This marriage merrymaking
is all I had ever imagined,
except for the awkward glances
between Joseph and me,
or that my right hand
would so often leave his left
to rub my belly
when no one was looking.
Then, to my surprise,
Joseph places his hand over mine,
looks deep into my eyes,
and smiles.
At Last
Two years of engagement
and preparation
are now rolled up
like a scroll.
A night of feasting
is finished, and finally
Joseph and I are led
to the nuptial chamber.
Alone, at last,
my new husband
lights the oil lamp,
then turns his back
while I free myself of my
wedding finery.
I shiver shyly, and hang my head.
None, save God and Gabriel,
have seen me thus.
It was not supposed to be like this,
my belly already swollen,
my body misshapen,
no longer the slender girl
I once was.
How can Joseph bear
to look at me?
Suddenly, all I want to do
is disappear.
“How beautiful you are,”
Joseph whispers,
wishing to ease me, no doubt.
Instead, his words
send more blood rushing
to my cheeks.
Gentle Joseph draws me
to the wedding bed,
but only to hold me.
We will not truly be man and wife
until the life inside of me sees the sun.
Sirocco
Like a wild desert wind,
some days
like this one
my feelings swirl
sudden and angry
for no reason
I can find.
Mother insists
this is normal for
a woman with child,
but I hate it.
I beat the floor
with my broom
and take my anger out
on dust and dirt,
trying to sweep my
momentary rage
out the door before
poor Joseph wanders into
the eye of the storm
that is me.