Four Poems from Childhood

“Hostess”

Ten years old

I started throwing parties

for the neighborhood kids.

Two weeks before,

my bottom dresser drawer

emptied out for party things.

A tablecloth, cut-up colored paper for confetti, old toys

for prizes and favors. Hand-drawn cards for games.

Candy squirreled away from the church event -

not by me only,

but my brother and the neighbor boy, too.

Ten dollars from my Grandma, who always

sends us ten dollars exactly on our birthdays;

the final judicious trip

to Wal-Mart. Each cent counted

for cheap soda, balloons,

Skittles, Little Debbie.

“Mystical Myst”

I remembered today

that I used to have a story

called Mystical Myst, and I

was a slave girl named Mearta.

In all my drawings she

had short dark hair, could handle

a sword. I think maybe

I still try to look like her

without knowing it.

“Ticks”

I wasn’t rebellious

as a child. That is,

I didn’t run away

(properly) or smoke

or throw fits. I got along

with my parents

for the most part, listened

except when Mom read

a book of instruction

for girls (then I hid

my head under the couch

and plugged my ears).

The one rule

I remember really

hating, really yanking

to disobey was

don’t wear skirts

in tall grass.

“H.A.S.O.P.”

I was eleven.

It was time

for a H.A.S.O.P. –

a Heart And Soul

On Paper. Diary

to the nth degree.

So secret I didn’t even

want the boys to steal

and hold ransom my black

notebook filled with writing

so small even I

could barely

read it.