backwards, or did
the whole rabbit hole
experience
simply make her
close her eyes?
Cody
Don’t Want to Open My Eyes
If I do, it will mean I admit I’m still
alive. Right now, I think, I could
choose to let go, say a silent good-bye,
and join Jack on the Other Side.
Do I want to do that? Don’t think so.
But what if it’s better? Until I decide,
I lie here, churning in an anesthetic
sea, inhaling antiseptic air. I’m on
my stomach, and want to turn over,
but something won’t let me. And when
whatever painkiller it is they’ve got
me on starts to wear off, my back catches
fire. While I wait for more, praying
they hurry, a tide of voices rushes in.
Whoosh: … he should have
regained consciousness by now… .
Whoosh: … suspect was the girl’s
boyfriend … haven’t found him yet… .
Whoosh: … know what the boy
was doing there or his relationship …
Whoosh: … leave me, Cody. Don’t
you dare make me lose you, too.
Whoosh: … Colts, fourteen; Chiefs, ten.
Figures. Goddamn loser Chiefs.
Eventually the Tide Recedes
One voice remains. Even if she wasn’t
talking, a steady, downstream flow,
I’d know it was Mom by the hills
of her hands. They stroke my face,
gentle my hair from my forehead.
Carry me back to when I was little.
I don’t know what you’ve gotten
yourself into, Cody boy … just
like when I was little … but you
can work your way out of it …
just like when … I don’t know
if I can help you, but I’ll try… .
Work my way out. But it’s such
a long way out. I don’t know if
I’m strong enough. Not even with
your help, Mama. Easier to just say
good-bye. Your hands feel good,
though. I love your hands… .
There’s a weird noise. A loud hum.
No! Cody! Footsteps. Running. Cody,
you come back here right now!
More hands. Motion. I am on my back.
Shit! That hurts. Different hands.
Pressure. Something covers my nose.
Air. Sweet. Why is it sweet?
In and out of my lungs. Breathing
for me. The hum changes to a steady
blip … blip … blip … Hey, just
like in the TV shows. Blip … blip …
I know what that means. I’m still here.
Mama? Don’t cry, Mama. Rub my hair
again. I’ll stay for a while. Promise.
Goddamn! My back’s on fire again.
But I can’t say so. Can’t open my eyes.
Can’t promise I’ll stay. That would
be lying. And I’m so, so tired of lies.
Voices. Decisions. Voices. I’m okay
for now. One voice I haven’t heard.
Ronnie, I understand. Hope you know
I’m sorry. You … are … are …
Mama’s voice again. His pillow is wet.
Doctor, is he crying? Doesn’t that mean …
Yes, Mama. For now. Don’t know
how long I’ll stay. If I come back,
I’ll try my best to change. Mostly change.
Feels good when you rub my head,
Mama. Blip … blip … Odds are good
I’ll come back to you, Mama… .
A Poem by Eden Streit
If I Come Back
If I come back to you now,
can we be what we were
before
life’s uncertain rhythms
tore us so far apart? If
I return
today, will your arms
gather me in, or will
I
be wrenched away,
snatched by a riptide I
have
no power to resist?
If I find my way
to
you, one man standing
in a crowd, will I even
know
who you are?
Eden
Off the Streets
Safely sheltered by the kind people here
at Walk Straight, thanks to Father Gregory.
What is it with me and good Samaritans?
I never believed so many really existed,
never guessed that any of them would ever
reach out and yank me away from hell.
That’s where I was. Hell isn’t some fiery
pit “down there.” It’s right here on Earth,
in every dirty city, every yawning town.
Every glittery resort and every naked stretch
of desert where someone’s life somersaults
out of control. Satan—Evil—doesn’t have
horns or poke you with a pitchfork. His power
doesn’t come from full moon sacrifices, and he
doesn’t go out looking for new recruits. He
doesn’t have to. All he has to do is wait.
Walk Straight
Is an amazing place, a rescue for teen
prostitutes who want to turn their lives
around. All they have to do is ask. I didn’t
know to ask, but Father Gregory did.
It’s run by an exceptional woman,
he told me, an ex-prostitute herself.
When she got out, she wanted to help
other young people get off the streets.
You’ll have a place to live, an education.
They’ll help you decide how to shape
your future. If you have a pimp, they’ll
encourage you to testify against him,
and they’ll go to court with you so you
don’t have to be afraid to put him away.
When I got here, they cleaned me up,
fed me, had a doctor run some tests.
I’m not pregnant, didn’t catch some
horrible disease. I was a little anemic,
but that will change with good nutrition.
I didn’t eat nearly so well at Tears of Zion.
My Caseworker
Is named Sarah. She’s really nice, but
she does ask a lot of questions, some
of which I’m not prepared to answer.
Sarah: Where is your home, Ruthie?
Okay, so I haven’t been completely
honest with them. I’m afraid if I give
them my real name, they’ll find some
kind of all points bulletin out for me.
So I used my middle name—Ruth. Sarah
added the “ie” to make it “feel friendlier.”
I didn’t exactly lie when I answered,
“Las Vegas has been my home for a while.”
Sarah: Okay, then. Can you tell me
how you ended up in “the business”?
More mostly truth. “I never wanted to.
I just didn’t know any other way to survive.”
Sarah: I understand. And what about
your parents? Will you tell me about them?
“They’re dead.” That was not a lie.
My parents are dead. To me.
Boise, Idaho
Is a bittersweet memory, and Tears of Zion
is a wake-up-shivering nightmare. My parents
are zombies, death-walking through both.
I would die before I’d go back, and I’ll have
to tell Sarah all of that very soon. Because I did
find a way to get hold of Andrew. His mom is still
a professor at Boise State. And, duh, professors
have e-mail addresses. We have computer access
here at Walk Straight. I e-mailed her two days
ago. She got back to me yesterday.
Eden! Thank God you’re okay. We’ve been
so worried! Andrew has searched and
searched for you. He pestered your parents
so much, I thought they’d have him arrested
again… . She gives a long story about
the first time they had him arrested, and how
they and some of Papa’s congregation
harassed Andrew until he had to have
his phone number changed. He’ll be so
relieved. How can he reach you?
I Insisted on E-mail
A phone call would mean somebody
knows and cares I’m here. I’m not
ready to confess that yet, not ready
to think about talking to Pastor Streit
and his not-nearly-as-sweet-as-she-seems
right-hand woman. She will never be Mama
again. I don’t know how much I will ever
be able to tell Andrew about the past few
months. I’m changed, and he’ll know
that. But does he have to know why?
If he finds out I’m here, I guess he’ll figure
out why. I go to the resource room,
open my Gmail. Oh my God. It’s here.
Eden, he writes. I can’t believe it’s you.
Every prayer answered. When can
I see you? When are you coming home?
To the point. All Andrew, in cyberspace.
I type a to-the-point reply: “Not sure
when I’ll come home. Lots to talk about.
Just know, now and always, I love you.”
A Poem by Seth Parnell
Home
Simple word. Four letters,
two consonants, two vowels,
one of them silent.
Home.
You wish you could walk
through a familiar
door, shout out
the word,
in a simple two-word
sentence: “I’m home!”
But that door
has
been closed to you,
slammed shut in
your face, and
no
amount of pleading
will open it again. Two
consonants, two vowels.
One word without
meaning
when you don’t have
a home.
Seth
Always Believed
There would be a way back
home eventually. Figured
sooner or later, Dad would
come around, accept me
for how I was born. Part Mom,
part him. But no. I did finally talk
to him on the phone. For all
of three minutes. You come
to your senses? Asked
the Lord for forgiveness?
“That’s between him and me,
Dad. And anyway, I never had
much sense to begin with. I’m
still who I am, though, no more,
no less. Want you to know I love you.”
He didn’t budge. Didn’t
say okay, son, come on
home. Didn’t say I’m good
with you, just how you are.
Didn’t tell me he loves me.
I Also Messaged Loren
Found him on Facebook.
Seems everyone has one of
those now. “Moved to Las Vegas
with a friend,” I wrote. “Things
didn’t work out, so I’m looking
for another place.” I hoped, of
course, that he’d write back,
confess how much he misses
me, ask me if maybe I’d like
to give upstate New York a try.
I didn’t hear back for quite
some time. So long, in fact, that
I was beginning to think he
was going to ignore me completely.
Finally, though, I got a reply.
Seth. Great to hear from you.
Glad to know you wound up
somewhere cosmopolitan.
I’ve got some news of my
own. Hope you’ll be happy for
me when I tell you I hooked
up with someone really
special. You’d like him,
I think. In fact, he reminds
me a whole lot of you… .
Don’t Know Where
I’ll wind up in the future.
I have no way to leave Vegas.
Not for a while. So for now,
I’ll stay here, living with David.
Met him through a friend of a chat
buddy, and so far, so good.
He choreographs major shows,
and with over thirty years in
the business, is something of
a Sin City icon. His house has
ten bedrooms. You could call
the decor garish, with marble
statues and white furniture.
Paparazzi hang around outside
his parties, which are regular.
I have no more with David
than I had with Carl, except
for amenities. My life is still
not my own. But it may never
be. One thing I did take away
from Carl is to try and earn
a little money of my own,
save up a small nest egg. Have Ur
Cake Escorts is my way of doing
that. When David isn’t looking.
A Poem by Whitney Lang
When You Weren’t Looking
The child became a woman,
though she wasn’t ready
to. Don’t ask how or
why.
Those questions are not
the important ones.
Can’t you
see you didn’t
care
enough to notice?
How will you feel
if we have no
more
time together? I wonder
if you’re sorry now
about
the way you locked your
heart, access denied to
the beggar at your door.
She’s nobody, only
me.
Whitney
Almost Died
That’s what they told me. Ninety
percent of me wishes they would
have let me go. Easier than battling
the vicious onslaught of withdrawal.
Easier than coming to terms with who
I was when I almost died. I don’t even
know that girl. She’s an esoteric
someone, like a movie character
you can’t quite recognize. Even
with my head just about straight,
she seems like a caricature—a cartoon
rendition of one of the living dead.
Throughout a week of intensive care,
I drifted in and out of the almost corpse,
not quite warmed by hospital flannel.
Then there were several more days, mostly
conscious as they pumped sustenance
into my veins. Sustenance and heroin
substitutes. Easing me off the Lady.
Pretending they didn’t want me to hurt.
I Can’t Tell You
Exactly how many days I hovered
somewhere between this world
and another, or which was the scariest.
But the first face I saw, when I decided
I might as well open my eyes, didn’t
belong to a doctor or a cop. Or Bryn.
I can’t remember ever seeing it so full
of
compassion. Who was this woman?
Oh, Whitney, she said. I expected
a How could you? but instead I heard,
Thank God you’ve come back to me.
To her? Did I come back to her?
Did I come back at all, and if I did,
would I stay? The jury was still out.
Still is today, a month later. No matter.
That day, her concern surprised me.
Pleased me. Overwhelmed me, though
I’d never admit it in a trillion years.
I pretended indifference. “Nice to see
you, Mother, I guess. Why are you here?”
My snotty tone should have drawn
a barb. But no. She came over to
the bed, took my hand. I’m so sorry.
If I would have lost you forever,
I don’t know what I would have done.
Please, Whitney, whatever your reasons
for leaving, for … for … She actually
started to cry. We can work through this.
Daddy came in later. Angry.
And Kyra, on semester break.
She was upset that I might have
damaged her reputation. Whatever.
But it has been Mom chipping away
at me, trying to convince me we can
maybe—maybe—become a family
again. I don’t know if I want that.
First I have to make it through rehab.
It’s a pricey place, with a pretty staff
and lots of mindless activities. The shrinks
even pretend to be nice while they’re
picking at my brain. I tell them just
enough to make them believe
they’re fixing me. I’m probably
unfixable. But hey, you never know.
A Poem by Ginger Cordell
You Never Know
When a passing cloud
might meet another,
and together unleash
lightning
on thirsting ground.
One insignificant spark
strikes
bone-brittle tinder.
Buoyed by the quiet
breeze, an ember
smolders until
evening wind blows,
carries smoking wisps
upon its wings into
the forest,
sighs into crackling
summer leaves until
the canopy
burns.
So take note of every
passing cloud, because
you never know.
Ginger
Don’t Know If It’s the Same
Everywhere, but Vegas has
its very own teen prostitution