I’ve had a
few too many
red plastic cups
and didn’t feel it
until now.
Until the music from
car radios is pounding
the inside of my skull.
Like water beating
against a boulder.
And the darkening sky is
blurring like everything
is underwater.
Images seem bent.
Sound is wet and slurred.
103
I lost track
of Renny
an hour or so ago.
When Victoria
showed up
in a leather jacket and
rose-red lipstick.
I stumble toward
the spinning
oaks and maples.
Because
I think
I need
to pee. Or
get some air. Or
not be
slammed with
all this noise.
A branch
snaps
behind
me.
Bo
backs me
against
a broad tree.
His arms
blocking
my escape
on
either
side.
104
His torso
presses
heavily
against mine.
Pushing me
into the trunk.
His breath
smells rotten
as
his mouth
bites
my
collarbone.
I can’t kick or
move my arms or
even speak.
Just a
grumble.
Then suddenly,
a miracle.
It stops.
Strong arms
yank Bo
off me.
Throw him
to the ground.
Strong arms.
The arms of
a baseball star.
Arms of
a carpenter.
105
Arms of
an older brother.
“If you ever
touch
my sister again,
I will personally
show you why
they say I have
the best swing
in the county.
You
understand?”
Bo coughs
and spits.
Throws up
in the dirt
before nodding.
We leave him
on the
forest floor.
Renny flips
the matted hair
out of his face.
He stretches
my arm around
his shoulder
and takes
me home.
106
An Understanding
This is why
there is a
comfort
in seeing
a woman’s
eyes
gaze back
from
within
a boy’s
body.
If he knows
what it is
to be
rough-
handled
for being
too strong
in the
wrong
ways.
For being
not strong
enough
in the
traditional
ways.
107
If he knows
what it is
to fear
a man.
To both
love
and fear
his own
softness.
To fear
rough
hands.
Then he is
not
to be
feared.
He is
like
me.
108
A Heartbreak
It’s late
on a Sunday night
and I follow
the sobs
to Renny’s door.
Dragging
my stool
behind me.
He gives a
half-hearted
nod.
I enter.
Victoria
broke up
with him.
He
discovered
she’d been
cheating
with a
football player
from the
community
college.
I can see
the hurt
and
109
confusion
on his face.
Though
I knew
something like
this
would happen,
the protective
anger
waterfalls
inside me.
It grows
tentacles.
Until
it is
a sea monster.
Tearing
the
U.S.S.
Victoria
apart.
Board
by
slimy
board.
My anger becomes
a creature
of the deep.
Scaled
and
finned
and
terrible.
110
I want to
spear her.
Or
swallow
her whole.
Or
drag her down
to an
ocean trench.
Where
she can see
nothing
but darkness.
So her vision
will match
her
stupid
terrible
heart.
111
A Disagreement
“Well,
things like that
happen,”
Ezra says,
with a shrug.
“It sucks, but
you have to
let people
be people.”
I’m taken aback.
“How can
you say that?
She cheated on
my brother.”
My brother who
adored her.
Who
was nothing
but
kind
and gentle.
Who
she
didn’t
deserve.
Renny.
My brother.
112
“That sucks,
I know,” Ezra says,
“But
people have
different needs.
Changing needs. And
maybe she and
your brother just
didn’t have what
they once had.”
Then
it happens.
I run
out
of
words.
In fact, I
can’t
say
anything.
My face becomes
the top of
a still lake.
Alive with unseen
snapping turtles. Or
a river pool hiding
deadly currents
just below
the surface.
“I have to go,”
I say coldly.
113
Makeshift Horoscope for Today
Later that day I
find a scrap piece
of paper
tucked inside
my locker.
Pisces:
Today is not a day
to be ruled
by anger.
Forgive
those
around you.
(Especially
cute Capricorns
who
don’t like
being
on your
bad side.)
114
A Proposal
“You know
what would
really put you
on my good side?”
I whisper
in the hallway
into Ezra’s ear.
He perks up.
A wicked grin
spreads across
his face.
“What?”
I grab his hands
and hold them
lightly
in mine.
“Come
down
to
the
river
with
me.”
115
April
The scent of
spring rain and
damp earth
fills the gorge.
The leaves
have returned,
green and
youthful.
The water is
crisp and
eager
to race,
free
of ice.
We take
the first drop
head on.
I peek
at Ezra with
sneaky,
smiling eyes.
The spray
messes up his
dark curls.
He shivers and
laughs
nervously.
Too nervously.
116
I take in his
wide eyes.
The hands
groping for
a grip on
the side of
the boat.
He’s
afraid.
I watch him
closely
for the rest
of the trip,
making sure
not to
knock his seat
too hard
on any
rocks.
The other guests
climb out.
Roaring with
laughter.
Wildly
recapping
every bend
and brace.
I ask
what he
thinks
of the river.
My river.
117
I motion toward
the light rippling
across
the water’s surface.
The home the
beaver built
off the bank.
The stillness
pierced by
the sharp cry
of a hawk.
“It’s okay,”
he says.
My mouth
drops like
a ledge rapid.
“Just okay?”
“It’s not really
my thing.
But thanks
for taking me.”
The river
inside me
stops
gushing.
A worry pops up:
what if we’re
not the same,
not at all?
118
A Concern
I pick
chocolate hazelnut,
to Sam’s
dismay.
“Why do you
have to ruin
a perfectly good
chocolate milkshake
with nuts?”
he grumbles.
“Because
it’s my turn and
you can have it
your way
next week.”
It took some
time and
convincing. But
Sam has seemed
to finally
warm up to the idea
of Ezra and me
together. Which is funny,
because
we’ve been that way
for half a year now.
119
“He’s going
to art school,
Sam.
Three hours away.”
“Well, does that mean
you’re not
dating anymore?”
“No,
no,” I say.
“We’ll just
see less
of each other.
But
he says
he’ll visit
every other weekend.
And
I can come stay
with him
when I want to.”
“Okay,” Sam says.
“So
there’s
nothing really
to worry about then?”
He looks up from
the milkshake glass,
straw still in mouth.
A slight frown
from the hazelnut.
120
I look away
and
blow the end
of my
straw wrapper
into
his
freckled face.
“No.
There’s
nothing
to worry
about.”
121
Summer Montage
I’m not sure
exactly
what
happiness
is.
But
the summer
passes by
in a string of
beautiful
barefoot
hours.
Stones
are skipped
to the beat of
the music
of a late dusk.
A soft guitar riff
is made from
the twangy
feeling of
grass
between
our toes.
We have
time
122
to not
overthink
thinking.
Just
admire the
bustling traffic
of forest floors.
Tire swings
dangling from
oak arms.
his fingers
brush across
my back like
the little green
inchworms
I’ve been finding
all over.
Every day.
I’m not
exactly sure
what perfect
happiness is.
But this
has got
to be
close.
I say
the
inchworms
will make me
123
think
of him.
Of the
stinging sweetness
of August,
when we laid
in the grass and
counted
the
remaining
days.
Inchworms.
Small
green
reminders
of
a
beautiful
green
boy.
Full of life.
Full of growth.
Full of earth.
I’m no
t sure
which is harder:
not knowing
someone you love
is leaving,
or knowing it
124
and still
holding
him.
He makes
me promise
to care for
the greenhouse.
It’s now bursting with
every color in
my vocabulary.
I make him promise
to come back for
my art display.
The coffee shop is
letting me have
it there in the fall.
“I promise,” he says.
125
Quarry, Sturgeon Moon
The night before
Ezra leaves,
we sit
by the quarry.
He plays
me a song
he wrote on
the mandolin.
“It’s for you,”
he says.
“A water song.”
I close my eyes so
I can really hear it.
Swells and currents
stream through
a loose,
floating melody.
With notes that
plink
like raindrops.
And some that
ebb and flow
like great
sweeping tides.
“I love it,” I say.
126
He looks up
while
still playing.
And says,
“I love you, Hannah.”
We curl up like
a wave
on the ground.
Arms wrapped
around
each other’s
bodies.
Under a full moon
he
did not pray to
tonight.
But,
then again,
I think
this
is a kind
of
prayer,
too.
127
After, Day 1
The sky is
an empty shell today.
Color sucked out
like an oyster.
Foggy, like
the remains
of a dream.
Like it will
wake up
any second
now
to take
inventory
of what’s
missing.
Ezra took
the colors
with him
when he left.
Which makes sense,
I guess.
They flocked to
the ones inside him.
Drawn to
like company.
Migrating too soon.
Too soon.
Where
did he learn
to do that?
128
And
when
will they
come back?
129
After, Day 10
Who was I
before
that did not know
this feeling?
I was whole and
self-contained,
sure.
But
I woke up
every morning
without
trying to remember
the smell of
someone else’s skin.
Like
recalling a dream
on the tip
of my tongue.
Or just behind
the eyelids.
Without the fingers’
hazy memory