Poem #6

Eleven Ways Of Looking At Me

I used to imitate

I used to fear

I used to bend in body and spirit

I don’t do any of those now

Not anymore

 Staring at the ceiling in the dark

Cringing at the sound of the woodpecker

Tapping out a midnight rhythm

Keeping me away from sleep

Simple music on the piano

They say practice makes perfect

But they don’t say how much

I imagine seven hundred wonders of the world

Or seven hundred thousand

Do you?

Why does the sun rise every morning?

Surely it would stop

The world would not go on

If one day I woke up

With salt on my face

Clouds in the sky waver

Pouring water into the lake

Ripples on its mirrored surface

I am afraid to make ripples on the pond

But I do

When no one is looking

Indecision

And inconsistency

Two blotches on my unfinished page

 Do the others see every day as a painting?

Do they know that somewhere, right now, someone is happy?

 There is a golden box deep inside of me

Someday it will open

And I will know myself

 Am I better off now?

I can’t erase anything I’ve done

Can I?

Will it be different at the end?

Is there still time to be forgiven?

Vignette #2

Summer Plums

The morning sun emits a feeble glow from behind a blanket of clouds, barely warming the dewy earth. Thin sand stretches briefly, shining and wet, against the silhouette of the sparkling gray lake, a shade darker than the pale, pearly sky. Grass beckons, waving its ragged arms in the fitful breeze. I kick my soccer ball, checked a harsh black and white, to this damp spongy grass, letting it roll over the uneven earth until it halts in a hollow.

Here! Pass! I’m open! My brother Julian yells his sporty enthusiasm to the distant clouds.

No, I want a turn! Six-year-old Daniel chimes in his piece. Let me have the ball! See those trees?  He points to a pair of towering maples surrounded by swaths of leaves and shade. That’s the goal!

Julian kicks a roundabout shot that bounces off of a root and idly rolls between the maples. Yeah! We did it! He cheers and throws the ball into the air ecstatically.

I wanna turn, Daniel whines. Can I be on Rose’s team?

No fair! What about boys versus girls?

The rest of the morning disappears in a whirlwind of crisp shots fired off like missiles. The chilly air slowly warms and the clouds dissolve into wisps high in a cerulean sky.

I’m hungry, Rose. Can we go home for lunch? I consent and we begin the necessary hike.            

Trees drape their arms, laden with leaves, over the narrow cement trail. Bikes whiz past, shooting like rockets to faraway places. Ferns line sections of the path, springy and damp with sweet dew. Birds harmonize with the quiet swish of tires on wet concrete. A wall of thorns grows parallel to the trail for a short stretch. I reach up through the prickly branches, feeling for the ripe blackberries, the fruit of summer.

Rose, Daniel says, I can’t reach any.

Fine, I’ll help you, but there aren’t many this time of year. Stretch tall, Daniel. Grab that one. Oh, you’re too short? Here, take this one. He tosses the berry in his mouth and grimaces.

I don’t think these are fully ripe, Julian whines.

Okay, let’s pick plums.

I can’t reach any of the plums.

Shut up, Daniel, Julian says, disgusted. Let’s pick berries from the bushes near the street. Watch out for cars.

I hoist myself up into the plum tree, stretching my arms out for the ripe fruit, just out of my reach. I shift to my tiptoes. The soft skin of the sweet summer plum sweeps across my fingers. I gently tug it off the branch, delicately as an owner petting a tiny kitten.

Julian, come here, I picked one.

No, I want the first one.

I’ll give it to you, Daniel, just let me hand it down to Julian. I let the plum fall, heavy with ripe juices, straight into Julian’s waiting palms. Daniel grabs it greedily, gulping a first bite. Generous juices run down his chin as he eats the dusty purple fruit. Julian’s stomach rumbles and I toss him another plum. As he devours it, I eat my fill. Heavy with fruit, and fingers stained purple, we head up the hill, trudging towards home.

Vignette #1: GOLD KEY VERSION

Not Too Common, But Common Enough

In Greek my name means “protector of mankind.” I don’t know why, since my full name, Alexandra, is flowery, elaborate and pastel pink. It sounds like a garden in the spring, maybe in April, or a candy-colored Easter egg. The sound of Alexandra lingers like the spring rains, slowing and quieting, but persistent. It tastes like a sugar cube slowly dissolving in your mouth, like a picnic in a golden field in the sweet heart of summer. Alexandra is a melodic name, but it is almost too somnolent for me. What suits me much better is Alex. It is like a flash of chartreuse, like a watch keeping time, like a river noisily and swiftly flowing over rocks. A name said in friendship, eating apples high in the slender boughs of a tree, blossoms just in reach. It is sharp, lively, and succinct. I always go by Alex.

            My parents didn’t name me after anyone, as the story goes. They searched online for a name for their baby. They found Alexandra. Not too common, but common enough, they say.   My middle name, Rose, belonged to Rosalind Franklin, a famous scientist. She was strong and brave and smart. The credit for her discoveries went to men after her death. She died young, of cancer. As my mother says, the men get the credit, and the women get the cancer. She says this every time she talks about scientists. I don’t want to die young. But I don’t mind having her name. I want to be strong, and brave, and smart. Sometimes I wonder if I will be great someday, too.

            I can imagine myself in a long white lab coat in a sterile, antiseptic-smelling lab, everything my parents hope I will be. Or I could be sitting at a rustic wooden writing desk in a cozy attic, jotting away in a thick notebook. I see myself taller, stronger, more confident, a new person. I could be a diver in a fluorescent mask soaring undersea with translucent, colorful gems of jellyfish in the dark cold of the bottom of an endless ocean. I could be fitted into a reflective, blank space suit and a visor tinted until my face is just a shadow, one nameless astronaut standing on the surface of a faraway moon, holding an American flag, red, white, and blue shining in a strange new sun and mixing in an alien breeze. I could be anything, a grown adult bearing just a shred of my teenage identity. But I will bear my name. I will always bear Alex.

            I have been Alex for so long, I don’t know what else I would call myself. Some days I feel Alexandra, but most days I feel Alex. Alex is a part of me that has slowly grown, wrapping its arms tightly around me like an old friendship bracelet, faded, but strong with memories. I wouldn’t be myself by any other name. I need that river, that flash of chartreuse, that apple frozen in time. Those belong to me.