How can I make them see you
through 9-year-old eyes, worshiping the lilt
of you, tripping down that weed-choked walk,
talking, laughing, talking. laughing, talking
as if those blocks from Beardstown High hadn’t hurt
in shoes so tight, blisters sprouted atop your blisters.
Yet yours is the lightest step as you and your friends
dream out loud about making all A’s and marrying Stars.
No, no, you say. I am going to BE one. Never mind
the others will walk on to big houses. Neighborhoods
where fat, round columns Greek porches fribiloed
and fanned with gingerbread cost a buck an inch. Tall oaks
and spreading maples take turns guarding house and garage.
You  will cross when you spy a catty-wampus frame
box needs paint and has a 9-year-old face glued to one
of its crooked, squeak-clean windows. Frames look gnawn.
Nearest tree is a mulberry lost all its limbs but one.
In front of the house, a stoop is doing what it can
to support sticks bow under tin. Roof rattles and quakes
every rain. Forget sleep. Old man keeps sawing logs.
Miracle of beer and "weeskee." Camels he burns up
the rent for can’t slow your grin, or stop it from lighting
Elm from river bridge to outskirts. Your friends wave
and grow small, still laughing. Good, the pasted child thinks.
Bad to want her to yourself. Come in! Hug your mama quick!
"Hello" a speech, thank goodness. Why you call her Mouse.

The pale face tries to moon through glass. Failing, scoots
through the kitchen to watch you wiggle open the back porch
door. More holes than screen, you laugh. Lashes so long.
Yellow, red, green bracelets click like Beardstown gossips’
tongues. Hair bounces, and the skirt you managed by ironing,
sitting and going to the store for friends’ mothers sways above
white socks you rawed your hands working stains out of
Nails unharmed. How ? How does the sun know to choose you?

Most precious gift, can’t read palms. Leaves refuse to tell
leukemia will kill you at 21. After-school to sink-soup and bread,
9 will ooh-cut-paste-ah with 16, Long, smart, excited fingers
glide over torn-out Stars a rich friend found in Movieland.
9 is trusted to open the cement. Never once "don’t spill."
Paper, eraser bits, rubber dope and clean sweat dizzy
Good scissors belong to Mouse, but 9 can help cut because 9 is careful 
16's friend! Room isn’t really a room. One of the walls is a blanket
hanging from pins. You have to sit real close. Heaven.
 

(c) Phyllis Jean {Dawson} Green,   January, 2005

     All Rights Reserved