Tricks

  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