- I've got an idea for a neat type of poetry/fiction
Soyeah. It's written in the same style as Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse for reference.
It's a little crackly in the beginning, sorry. Hopefully it will get better.
Hungry
"Mama, I'm hungry,"
I say
for about
the billionth time. My stomach
rumbles
and
grumbles
and dances
in my skin.
Skin.
Stretched,
over a ribcage
and
joints
but no meat.
No muscle.
No food.
My eyelids are heavy, like there's
beach sand clogging them and weighing them down.
But there's not.
I've
never been
to a beach.
Only Mama and Daddy.
All
my
friends
have.
I'm jealous, but
I never ask Mama or my daddy if we can
maybe one day
go to a beach.
Daddy will yell at me.
"You know
that we don't have the money for that!
We use it all to keep food
in your stomachs, so
stop
asking."
He says that about
everything.
"But dad,"
I made the mistake of saying once,
"I don't get much to eat."
Big mistake.
In the middle
of Dallas summer
I had to walk around
with a heavy winter jacket on
to hide
the
bruises
that covered
my arms.
Today is no difference.
He stares me down first, brown eyes
narrowed and positioned on their prey.
He pushes his chair back next, walks
calmly
toward me,
catches me by the arm, and
half-leads
half-drags
me into the closest room.
When we're alone,
the mask of Daddy leaves
and the face
of the Devil comes out
and I know that the only thing keeping him
from killing me right then and there
is my nosy teacher
who sent a note home asking if
one of my older brothers and I got
in a fight.
But that doesn't stop him from
scaring me
half to death.
He shoves me against the wall,
hurriedly rapping along the side of the head and arms
a few times,
hitting a few bruises on my arms good and hard,
then walks out
leaving his eleven-year-old
to cry alone.
I
don't
like
crying
but I can't help it
because
my head hurts
and my arms hurt
and he scares me.
He has never liked me.
Said so himself
at dinner, in front of all thirteen of my siblings.
And so
he leaves his eleven-year-old
to cry alone
wondering what he ever did
wrong.
Art Class
Out of all my classes,
art class is my favorite,
I think.
I love
the paints and pastels,
crayons and colored pencils,
scissors and glue.
My little sisters like art class too,
and they shower our mom
with gifts,
folded paper birds,
crudely painted flowers,
cootie catchers and other insipid,
childish things.
Daddy told me, once the triplets started school, to stop wasting Mama's time with stupid sketches and bad pastel drawings.
He said,
"give up
trying to please and be a show-off.
It's
only
annoying."
So if I don't like
my art,
I throw it
---------------away.
If I like it,
I keep it in a worn-out notebook under my bed I share with my brother, hidden from the light and from Dad and from the garbage can,
and
if my art teacher
Ms. Hays
seems to like it,
I give it to her.
She's nice.
She never says,
"Your
art
is
bad."
She never says,
"You
are
bad."
I like her.
Oops
I
am
dead.
Mama's gonna be sad, because these were brand-new clothes,
kind of.
She took one of my older brothers' ripped, old shirts and patched it up,
took a too big pair of jeans and hemmed 'em up.
Daddy's gonna wring my neck.
I am
scared
to go home when the bell rings.
My stomach feels
like it's trying
to crawl out of me through my mouth.
She called me a baby when I started to cry.
The prissy blonde girl didn't seem very sorry.
She even said that
now I have a valid excuse
to go to the store and buy new clothes.
"You're a fifth grade boy,
why're you whining when you could just go to Walmart and get new hings?
Jesus, it's only clothes. Chill out."
But it's not just clothes.
The tears roll down my cheeks
as I try to wipe them away
with my old, raggedy sleeve.
Then
Ms. Hays comes over to see what's wrong.
The girl giggles stupidly and hooks a pointer finger in her bottom lip. "Oops."
Yeah.
Oops.
Paint Stains (Smile)
It's funny
how an almost perfect
patched, white shirt meant for Sundays
can easily turn into
a collage of
yellow,
blue,
green,
orange,
pink,
purple,
and red that my little sister says is almost as bright as my flaming hair color.
She says this on the bus.
I groan.
It's funny
how dark denim can so easily be
splattered
with creamy avocado shades
and sky blue marks
and orangey tints.
She holds my hand.
Little Flora, always trying to make me feel better.
I smile, even though
I'm terrified of the idea
of going home.
I smile, even when
my identical brothers
tell me Dad's going to kill me when I get home.
I only smile.
Bump
Bump!
Bus rides home are fun,
when you're full of energy
and feel like shouting.
But once,
last year,
I got punched by another boy
in the jaw.
He was a fifth grader
who'd gotten held back twice.
I was a scrawny fourth grader.
I
didn't
even
cringe.
When you get
enough of a living hell at home,
from a man with large muscles
and
the urge to snap smaller boy bones,
a school bully is but an annoyance.
He would have scared me
if
he was as tall and
hateful
as my father.
But he wasn't, and he was
right and surprised
when I caught the side of his head, with a curled, bony fist.
I got suspended from the bus for that
and Daddy made sure I knew his anger about it.
He popped me in the mouth twice in front of all my siblings
just to embarrass me,
then dragged me
by my small, trembling hand,
into my room, making me regret
ever
thinking
to defend myself.
All Grown Up
I
was
right.
Daddy and Mama were not at all
pleased
with the plaint stains on my clothes.
I think Mama actually turned around
and started crying,
which only made me feel worse
because
I love her, and I definitely
don't want to be the reason
for her tears.
I could tell Daddy was mad at me at first,
but the anger spiked when Mama started to
cry.
The infuriated scowl turned to a hateful smirk,
and I knew he was imagining me,
wandering around again,
in my too small black winter jacket.
In the fall.
But then,
my older brother steps up for me.
He says,
"It was
my fault.
I was messing with a few
of my friends,
and she had a wet art project, and
it fell
right onto him.
If anybody's going to be punished,
please let it be
me."
I stood there, startled, because
why would Blaine want to take my bruises?
But Daddy shakes his head,
turning away from me and my middle-school brother,
who I'd always thought was young compared to my twenty-three year old sister,
but now one of the most grown up people I know.
"Don't worry about it, B.
He wasn't going to be punished, I could tell that
it was an accident."
We both know he's lying through his teeth,
but we say nothing. I don't know why
he doesn't like me. I can tell
from the look in his eyes, that any little thing I do later,
he'll use as an excuse to get back at me.
Luke, Blaine's identical twin, is leaning against the doorframe,
arms crossed over his chest, nose wrinkled.
"Why would you offer to take his beating?
Are you stupid or somethin'?"
Blaine glares him, wrapping an arm protectively around my shoulders.
"No,
I'm just a thirteen-year-old who loves his little brother
and would do anything for him.
Is there a problem with that?"
Luke snorts, rounds the corner and follows Daddy into the living room.
I feel my eyes and nose burn and sting once more,
squirming closer to the eighth grader with his arm around me,
and his grip tightens.
"I promise, promise, promise,
I'll watch over you.
I will keep you safe.
I
won't
let
him
hurt
you."
This should make me feel better, but hot tears slip down my cheeks,
and I don't even bother to wipe them away, because
I know that many more are on their way.
Maybe not today,
maybe not tomorrow,
but I know
this won't be the last time I've ever cried.
