Traffick

  First, he straightens his back,

  builds himself real tall, tilts

  his chin toward his nose. Red

  alert: serious stuff headed this way.

  Now, you probably think

  you’ve experienced love,

  but unlike the men many

  of you have known, Jesus

  doesn’t ask for favors in return,

  at least not that kind of favor.

  All he requires of you is to

  accept him into your heart,

  and to pray for forgiveness

  for your sins. You can do that,

  can’t you? The robots group-nod.

  Then let us pray. Heavenly Father,

  please search our hearts, and

  find repentance there. We admit

  we have sinned. Forgive us and

  allow us to walk forward cleansed

  of our transgressions. Infuse us

  with your light. Fill us with your

  love. In Jesus’s blessed name, amen.

  We. Us. Our. All-inclusive.

  Why Does Everyone Insist

  On lumping us all together

  under the “troubled youth”

  label? I guess our stories

  might sound similar,

  but to us, they are unique

  and personal, despite

  the ugly things we have

  in common. Most of our

  childhoods were marred

  by rape, often by older men.

  But those might have been

  a stepfather, grandfather,

  older brother, neighbor,

  teacher, priest, doctor,

  foster parent, policeman,

  or complete stranger.

  Faces. Bodies. Odors.

  Skin textures. Voices.

  Mannerisms. Methods

  of attack. All different,

  and scratched into our

  memories and, worse,

  our psyches. We are who

  we are because of them.

  Post Prayer

  We attend classes. I balked

  at first, knowing I’d be leaving

  House of Hope before I’d complete

  a semester, but my counselor

  did her job and convinced me

  I shouldn’t get any more behind

  than I already am. She even got

  hold of my high school in Barstow

  and found a way for me to finish

  up the classes I was most of the way

  through when I ran away last spring.

  I worked a little magic. That’s how

  she put it when she told me I could

  complete geometry, world history,

  and sophomore English and receive

  credit for them. When I go home,

  I’ll take online classes, work at

  my own pace and hopefully complete

  my junior year pretty much on schedule,

  or at least by the end of next summer.

  I could then, if I wanted, go back

  to high school for my senior year

  and graduate like a regular kid.

  But how do I pretend to be normal?

  To Be Perfectly Honest

  I’ve never exactly felt “normal,”

  thanks to the circumstances

  of my life. And, to be even more

  honest, I actually feel more

  normal now, knowing how many

  other girls’ lives don’t fit the usual

  definition of the word and yet

  share so many strange facets.

  There are more imperfect diamonds

  than flawless stones. So, what

  the hell? I’ll give it a try, and do

  my best to keep moving forward.

  Hey, with luck, maybe Pastor

  Martin’s shtick will rub off and

  I’ll make the journey “cleansed

  of my transgressions.” Wouldn’t

  that be brilliant? Meanwhile,

  I’m working diligently to finish

  my assignments quickly and earn

  decent grades. It’s the first time

  since I was a little kid that I’ve

  felt compelled to excel at something,

  and I’m discovering my mind

  is every bit as important as my body.

  My Love for Language

  Has been rekindled. I first found

  it back in Barstow, in Ms. Felton’s

  creative writing class. The one

  where I met Alex—all spiky hair

  and heavy eyeliner and I thought

  she was amazing before we ever

  hung out together. And maybe

  I’ll have to write that memory

  for Ms. Cox, who teaches English

  with a heavy lean toward creative

  writing. Every one of you has stories

  to share with the world, she says,

  and you must tell them the way only

  you can. If I asked you all to write

  the same story, still it would be

  different from one another’s because

  each of you will tell it in your own way,

  choosing specific words and syntax.

  That is your voice, and it’s as unique

  to you as the voice you speak with.

  In reply, most of the girls groan,

  but they claim to hate writing,

  anyway. A few of us take up

  the challenge, and I embrace it.

  We Write

  Happy memories. I struggle

  to come up with one of those,

  and find it buried beneath

  a deep pile of resentments.

  It was the first Christmas

  we spent with Gram, and there

  was a tree—a real tree, our first!—

  with ornaments we made ourselves.

  Not beautiful by any means,

  but spending that time as a family,

  stringing popcorn and cranberries

  and making paper chains, was new.

  We also write sadness,

  and I don’t have to look too hard

  to pull a short chapter from

  my personal history. I only had

  to go back a few weeks ago,

  to the day Alex and I parted

  ways. Although, as I admit

  in my paper, she and I had truly

  split quite a while before our

  formal goodbye, and that’s where

  I found the true wellspring

  of my sorrow. Faded love.

  This Morning

  Ms. Cox has a new assignment.

  Today let’s write about fear.

  First, an exercise. I want you to

  concentrate on sensory details.

  So take out a piece of paper

  and tell me how fear smells.

  How it tastes. How it sounds.

  How it looks. Feels. One or two

  sentences for each sense, and

  be creative. You are artists,

  painting pictures with words.

  Fear isn’t pastel. Be bold. Brave.

  This should be easy. For all

  the sadness I’ve experienced,

  fear is a more present companion.

  I have to take a couple of deep

  breaths to breast stroke through

  the recollections. Now I pick up

  my pencil and write. Fear smells

  like nicotine-tainted fingers, playing

  with an unwashed pecker poking

  from piss-damp boxers. Bold?

  I think so. I continue. Fear tastes

  like the whiskey-soaked lips of your love,

  whispering a long goodbye.

  That one is fresh, and personal.

  Fear is the sound of fingernails,

  scratching linoleum, seeking escape

  from the monster clawing behind.


  Nothing brave about that,

  but it’s something I know well.

  Fear looks like a crow, circling closer

  and closer until its black pearl eyes

  come even with your own. Heavy

  with symbolism, but also drawn

  from experience. Fear feels like

  waiting for the phone to ring,

  certain the caller will inform you

  that your little brother is dead.

  Definitely not pastel. That memory

  is bloodred, and though I try

  really hard not to let it surface,

  sometimes it does—a sharp photo

  of Sandy lying in the street after

  being hit by a motorcycle.

  I should have been there, watching

  him instead of hanging out downtown.

  Thank God he survived, and healed.

  We Go Around the Room

  Sharing what we’ve written.

  Some girls clearly didn’t get

  it, and their papers are mostly

  blank. Others scribbled madly.

  From Lena: Fear is the sound

  of my father’s belt, unbuckling.

  Plenty to think about there.

  Sometimes I’m glad my father

  didn’t stick around long enough

  for me to get to know him well.

  If he was married to Iris, he must

  be the world’s biggest loser.

  From Brielle: Fear tastes like

  the oily, smoky barrel of a gun.

  Another bold picture for you,

  Ms. Cox. Is that what you expected?

  And from my roomie, Miranda:

  Fear feels like a snake, wrapping

  around and around your throat

  and squeezing tighter and tighter

  until the light goes all the way

  out. And after that comes a gang

  rape. Wonder if Ms. Cox might

  prefer something more in sepia.

  If So

  She doesn’t mention it, or

  even look surprised at the things

  she’s heard, including what

  I wrote. The other girls aren’t

  shocked, either, although

  my “fear smells like” sentence

  does elicit a fair amount of laughter,

  mostly because the majority

  of girls here have been in that

  exact situation. Which makes me

  wonder about Ms. Cox and her

  relative lack of reaction. Was she

  ever in the life? Thinking about

  it, I’m guessing no, or she probably

  would have changed her last name.

  That makes me giggle, so I’m glad

  the other girls are still laughing

  about unwashed pecker and piss-damp

  boxers. But now, Ms. Cox reins us in.

  Okay, since you’ve got solid

  sensory details to bring this story

  to life, I want you to write about

  a time when you were frightened.

  Make your readers feel your fear.

  Won’t That Depend

  On who my readers are?

  I mean, if I wrote about

  my “breaking in” by one

  of my mother’s men,

  the story wouldn’t bother

  these girls, though it might

  scare the hell out of some

  innocent virgin somewhere.

  Oh, well. Ms. Cox never

  mentioned audience, so I’ll go

  with whatever first comes

  to mind. I have to think for

  a few minutes. Fear. I close

  my eyes, fall backward in time.

  Way, way back into childhood.

  I was a kid once, wasn’t I?

  And there was a time long

  before moving in with Gram

  when Iris was still “Mommy.”

  We moved around, spent lots

  of time on military bases,

  living with a lineup of men,

  and I find myself on a lopsided

  sofa, watching cartoons.

  I Start My Story There

  Mommy says I’m a big girl, so I’m in

  charge while she’s gone. Mary Ann’s

  asleep in her dirty old crib. Her diaper

  smells like poo, but it’s dark outside,

  and the light is burned out so I can

  only see by the TV. Scritch-scratch.

  What’s moving across the floor? Ew!

  Giant brown bugs, two of them, with

  clicking shells and antennas that twitch

  sideways. I pull my feet up onto the couch,

  which smells like cigarettes and beer

  and something I don’t have a name for,

  but it stains the cushions crusty white.

  Suddenly, there’s banging on the door.

  Iris! Let me in! It’s Wes. Where’s his key?

  I start to get up, but with a loud crash,

  the door flies open. Where the fuck is Iris?

  That makes Mary Ann wake up, crying.

  Wes stomps closer, eyes wide and weird,

  reflecting the TV’s glow. His mouth leaks

  booze-stinking spit and he screams, I said,

  where’s your fucking mother? I draw back

  against the arm of the sofa, try to crawl

  into the crack there, but Mary Ann’s wailing

  makes Wes mad. Shut up! he yells, shaking

  the rail, which only makes her cry harder.

  He reaches into the crib, but I know he’ll hurt

  her. “No! Stop. I’ll take care of her. Mommy’s

  next door at Steve’s.” Ken spins, and I think

  he’ll leave us alone, but he grabs hold

  of me, tucks me under one arm, and now

  I smell onion sweat. I’m facedown, watching

  the ground move below, dizzying. Tread

  the steps, across the dead grass, toward

  the neighbor’s, Wes’s anger beating palpably.

  Hey, Iris! I’ve got your little girl! Bam!

  He kicks in the door, and there’s Mommy,

  and now I notice the knife in his hand.

  You been screwing around, whore? He puts me

  down, but doesn’t let go. Instead, he holds

  the blade to my throat. Come here, Iris. It’s you

  or her. I see Mommy smile. Feel a sharp sting.

  Look down as red dollops fall onto my shirt . . .

  The story ends with shirtless Steve, who

  went out the bedroom window, around

  the house, and sneaked in from behind,

  resting his pistol against Wes’s temple.

  Iris laughed and laughed and laughed.

  A Poem by Bud Parnell

  My Story Nears Its Conclusion

  Not quite two years

  since my sweetheart let go

  of her pain, emptied

  these rooms of love, and

  I

  still hear her whispers

  fall soft against my pillow

  in the deep indigo sea

  of night. How do I ignore the

  hunger

  to hold her again, spend

  just one more hour together?

  And my son, my Seth.

  If I could change a thing

  it would be the need for you

  to leave

  the path to damnation

  you chose. I sit, drowning

  sorrow in a bottle, look out

  over the fields, harvested

  and soon fallow, consider

  the coming freeze and

  this

  I wonder: is the blossoming

  pain in my chest more than

  just a broken heart? I pull

  a weary breath, knowing

  my time is short in this

  world.

&nbs
p; Seth

  Choreographing a New Show

  Is apparently time-consuming.

  David has been working overtime,

  which bothers me not at all. I enjoy

  his company, but I’m not lonely

  without it, and when he comes home,

  despite the long hours he puts in,

  he seems energized. Maybe it’s just

  passion for creation, or maybe it’s got

  everything to do with white lines

  snorted in dressing rooms. Probably both.

  I’m glad he refuses to maintain a stash

  here, or I might be tempted to indulge

  far more often than I do. I like the cool,

  numbing escape; love the delicious rush

  of goose bumps and shivers. But not

  enough to lose the “me” I’ve worked hard

  to find and encourage in a more positive

  direction. Coke is more addictive than

  alcohol, and that’s saying a lot. I’m trying

  desperately to keep a handle on both.

  At First

  I thought the reason David won’t keep

  drugs in this place was because he worried

  about getting ripped off by his staff

  or me. Turns out, he’s just paranoid

  about losing the house in a raid. But,

  if he were to think about it logically,

  law enforcement must have some idea

  about what goes on here at the parties.

  Seems like all the city’s movers and

  shakers attend them, and that probably

  includes a politician or ten, and maybe

  even a keeper-of-the-peace or two.

  Even without actually witnessing

  him use, it’s not much of a stretch

  to conclude famed choreographer

  David Burroughs has a tidy drug habit

  himself. Ah, show business, especially

  Sin City show biz! Sexy girls. Sexy boys.

  And enough stimulation to keep both

  going all hours of the day and night.

  To Keep

  From falling into the same trap,

  I have to stay busy, and not just with

  Have Ur Cake entertainment. I need

  something wholesome in my life, so

  I’m volunteering at a center serving

  LGBTQ youth. At eighteen, I’m old

  enough to work here, but young enough

  so queer teens will feel comfortable

  hanging out with me. I can’t officially

  counsel them, but I can share my own

  experiences and try to help them become

  more at ease about living in their unique