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Spring 2005 Issue

Enough

I remember tying up dirty clothes
in bed sheets to be transported
to the laundry mat across town
in a yellow cab

I remember large block letters
on plain white boxes and cans
and discovering that USDA peanut butter
was not as smooth or creamy as the neighbor's Jif

Before free lunch and food stamps
we could leave school at noon to eat.
Sometimes we would split a fried egg sandwich.
Sometimes we would have a long walk home.

Summers were spent under the bed
shirtless and reading, stuck to the cool tile floor.
Government housing
didn't come with air conditioning.

I remember quietly disappearing and running
home and away from the sound of the ice cream man
before we learned to pour red Kool-aid
into ice tray pop sickle treats

Other kids always had more house
more toys, more food, more daddies
but mamma said we were rich
cause we always had
enough.

Autumn/Winter 2005 Issue

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Editor's Note

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SNR's Writers

Mail

Why I Ring the Bell

We all made fun
of little sawed off Sylvia Horton
taking privileges with her name
while rewriting Dr. Seuss
snickering at the way she dressed
like somebody's granny
long skirts, no make up, dead hair
plain shoes

seemed odd for a fifth grade girl
to not smell like bubble gum
or wear pigtails
as odd as the large scarlet birthmark
that dominated her globe of a face
like Europe and Asia combined

I remember my own face
when the Salvation Army Christmas
toy and food deliverers
emptied their arms and boxes
and erased the empty space
beneath our crooked tree

every mean thing I ever did
every unkind word
returned like a fist to my throat
then rained down my face
in tiny beads of sweat
when my mother made us hug
our benefactors, Sylvia first

afterwards, I watched her grow tall
in our silence

Why We Keep Plants

Carnival goldfish and guppies
that survived the weekend
were finished off with generous portions
of self rising corn meal
and too much attention
from the many hands and eyes
belonging to my younger siblings

the tiny aquarium
became a planter
after its bloated, floating contents
circled the bowl twice
and disappeared

jim dandy, more race horse than mouse
escaped from the cardboard box
but not the neighbor's fear or feet

we buried him out back
shrouded in notebook paper
resting in an empty
Quaker Oats container
his last rites shifted
to a plot for revenge
that somehow dried all the tears

pepper, way too curious to be content
in a dog house
had been missing for more than a day
before I recognized the fluff of hair
dancing on the double yellow line
in the middle of Lexington road

risking the same fate
I used a crushed soda can
to scrape up what was left
and told my sisters
he ran away.

Glutton

I could barely lift the slop buckets
we kept in the house
on account of stray dogs
and bored teenagers

after collecting contributions
from neighbors in exchange for
false promises
of a foot or a ham
come Christmas
I would ride in the back
of a pickup truck, with the slop
all the way to Davistown
where mamma's second husband
housed a litter of pigs

they squealed and gobbled down
corn cobs, potato peelings
apple cores, moldy bread, chicken bones
hard cheese, orange rinds and burnt toast
with more pleasure and appreciation
than we who created the leftovers

like him
they didn't need to hear mamma say amen
to start eating
and they wouldn't stop
until everything was gone

watching them grow fat and slow
and mean
didn't increase my appetite
for pork chops, bacon or sausage

I was too soft
to be a real farmer
he said, and I'd better keep my head
in them books
or learn to starve
when I became a man.

Writes of Passage

Nez Perce boys go hunting or fishing
for salmon or trout. The Zulu sent Chaka
into the wild to find a lion.
My tribe sent me down the gauntlet
that was the aisle of a yellow bus
the first week of senior high.

Every red, white and blue Converse high-top
step was punctuated
with double slaps to the hook of my head
or quick kicks to the back of my knees.

I carried a nerd load of books and teared up
way too fast to become one of them, but
excommunication was its own reward.

I learned to enjoy the solitude and long walks
to class were I polished up the angry young
couplets I wrote in my head
and tried to understand the square root
of meanness.

How many cultures choose their griots,
their shamans, their poets
by putting them off the bus?