Words with Wings: Words with Wings

He didn’t want his kid
named after some silly,
weak-looking chubby cherub.

Mom is stubborn, though.

She flipped through the Bible,
found a few fierce angels
and tried again.

I braced for a summer
of impossible good-byes,
and the dread
of living without friends
ever again.

I braced for a summer
of impossible good-byes,
and the dread
of living without friends
ever again.

To chase away the fear,
I flipped through a dictionary,
plucked out the word hush
and thought about
the whisper of wind
rustling through leaves,
come next autumn,
and the silence of their falling.

Some words
sit still on the page
holding a story steady.

Say “concert,”
and I’m somewhere
in the past,
sprawled out on the grass
in Central Park,
my head cozy
in Mom’s lap,
her head cozy
on Dad’s shoulder.

When I fling a pair of napkins
toward the table,
one sails on the air
like a kite,
and I take off running
across the park,
chasing my crimson high flier
as it cuts across the blue

Arabesque

This weekend,
I stayed with my dad.
He bought tickets to the ballet
like I begged him to.

I tied on my toe shoes,
checked the fit of my tutu,
then pirouetted and leaped
across the stage.

careening through
a lopsided snow fort,
waking the morning
with laughter;
steering straight into
the sun.

Say “snowflake,”
I start to shiver;
rip off my mitten
and giggle as one wet,
cold, lacy filigree
of winter white
falls onto my greedy palm,
then melts away.

Say “waterfall,”
and the dreary winter rain
outside my classroom window
turns to liquid thunder;
pounding into a clear pool
miles below,
and I can’t wait
to dive in.

Favorite Words

Mine: Pretend.
Mom's: Practical.
All we have in common
is the letter P.

She holds me, quiet,
and strokes my hair.

I clench my teeth,
feel fire in my cheeks,
then tears come
to smother the flames.

Maybe something
is wrong with me,
all this fancy dancing
in my mind.

On Monday
I shuffle to school,
eyes fixed on my footsteps,
no skipping ahead
on imaginary adventures.

Persistent

Teacher keeps an eye on me
all week.
I give him no reason
to call me aside,
but he does.

Say “butterfly”
and I am swimming in sunshine,
sprawled in the grass,
blowing on a blade
to make it whistle,
and eyeing the sky
for small, fluttering things
wearing rainbow wings.

Say "carousel,”
and pale painted ponies
gallop past.
I reach for the reins of one,
swing up into the saddle,
and race,
standing still,
wind whipping my braids
as I fly.

I head in his direction,
pretend I need
to sharpen my pencil.
I manage to drop it
right next to his desk,
an excuse to bend down,
study him up close.

I clench my toes around
an imaginary tightrope,
then leap into
the safety net
just in time to catch
the question
Mr. Spicer throws.

Say "stilts,"
and I am
GABBY
THE
GREAT,
a mystifying
master
juggler;
rising
high above
the circus
crowd

marching
alongside
the elegant
elephants

and anxious
as anyone
to watch
the trapeze
artists
sail
on air.

Then, when he’s not looking,
I scramble onto his back,
grab a handful of scale,
and ride him across the sky
till the sun dives
into the sea.

Say "tent,”
and I run my fingers
over the velvety moss
near my sleeping bag

and I feel
the cool night air
ripple the hair
on my arms

We lean back in our seats,
feel the dark wrap round us
like Saturn’s rings,
and hold our breaths,
staring up at a night sky
speckled with starlight
and bigger than
all our dreams
slung together.

Say “canyon,”
and I am at
horizon’s rim,
leaning over
a deep bowl of echoes.

I gape at the grand cavern
and call
“GABRIELLA!”

“It’s wonderfully vivid,” he says.

Plus homework’s easier,
now that my mind’s not
always meandering.