and without him
(a him that is, any him would have fit
into that strangely shaped hole
labeled ‘Da’) she was
lost. A bit dreamy, her teachers said,
always telling stories.
and she was shunned (by the girls) in Grade 4
since the time when she spent all recess
rescuing worms. They would have
drowned anyway, she knew, they had only
broken the surface of earth
to avoid the sea of mud.
She named them and gave them
Histories and pasts
And all of them had
fathers
the status quo
and she had nothing but
dirty hands.
“my da said” was how she started
all of her rambling fantasies
and in the schoolyard
under the pines, by the cyclone fence.
he was Red Deer, brave Chief
who hunted while she collected
acorns pine needles dirt
for imaginary feasts.
he was the checker at Costco
with the moon tattoo. At the zoo,
smiley and funny he was
the keeper with the penguins
Dribbling watery yolk-poop on his boots.
(Nobody ever said
“You don’t have a dad.”
Not out loud, anyway.)
By ninth grade she was
Just one of a pack
Pretending that Father’s Day
Was when girls went to the mall
And picked up Sugar Daddies.
Everybody had steps/halfs/divorces, and
She had lost her need, her hole, until
Mr. Bizet, the Art teacher, (“Mr. Bzzaaay,”
the snotty girls said
in their nasal, rich-girl voices)
Brought in pale white stalks
And said, “Draw.”
“Don’t just
tell me what you know
about shading and light.
Tell me
A story,” he said.
“What do you know
about this item?”
And she was back
on the playground
Under the pines next to
the cyclone fence,
Thinking,
Once upon a time
My Da said
These were faery houses.
A cozy community
And in each of them
There grew, in bright white darkness, a family of Ikone
Fey, pale, albino creatures
But with great strength.
And once, in every generation
A silver Ikone was born
“Why is she whispering?
Man, she’s such a freak.
Mr. B., can I change my seat?”
And the silver Ikone
Was the seventh child of a seventh
And though the Ikone
Took the child from its father
Raised it apart in the world
Of the priestesses,
It knew
It had a destiny
To change the world;
A duty to live, apart
From the pure white darkness
And be something greater
Stronger, something deeper.
“I like what you’re telling me,
Ænid. You look like you
Really know your story.”
“Have you ever thought
about writing? You’d be
good at it, I’ll bet.
“Oh, I don’t know,”
she said as if
inside she did not stand
upon the white rooftop
of her tiny home and shout
that she was
the silver child.
Photographer dis cover y has inspired this week’s Flickr snippet with this unnamed photograph, and may or may not be Flicktionated by our rapidly crumbling crew of the usual suspects: The Gurrier, Teaandcakes, Elimare, Chris, Aquafortis, Valshamerlyn, and Miss Mari.
I like this – second what aquafortis and wierdo have said. It’s beautiful how the loss never leaves her, can jump out at her totally unexpectedly.
I liked this poem! It was sad in a very innocent way. Glad there was a happy ending though!!
Touching poem! You’re so multitalented…maybe SAM can get this one into Cricket or something…