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Authors: Sarah Crossan
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as she can admit,
Or as happy as she can be for me.
And for now, that’s OK.
Reunion
I am sitting on the
Front steps of our
Building, chewing on a
Peperami, waiting for William,
When Kanoro arrives
Without warning.
I jump to greet him
And he takes me
Into his arms without embarrassment.
‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ he asks.
Mama was standing at our window
Watching me and is down the stairs
Before I have a chance to answer.
Mama runs to Kanoro.
They look stupid together:
Mama is bright-white.
Kanoro is too-black against her.
And yet, the picture is pretty good.
Treat
Kanoro takes Mama to dinner.
She wears a yellow dress
And shoes so high
She wobbles when she walks.
Mama wore that dress once before,
In Gdańsk,
When Tata took her to the theatre
And they came home
Holding hands.
But Mama and Kanoro
Are not hand holding
When they get back from dinner
At all.
They are holding their tummies
Because they ate too many
Tacos
And then they are holding their sides
Laughing.
Kanoro sleeps on the couch
And in the morning,
After tea and toast,
He honks his horn,
Waves from the window of his
New car and disappears
On to the ring road.
I watch Mama closely,
Afraid she will rearrange herself
Into grief.
‘People usually come back, Mama,’
I say, and she nods
As she folds the sheer yellow dress and
Lays it neatly in a drawer.
‘I think I need a haircut,’ she says.
Resurrection
Mama is alive again,
A little bit alive.
She isn’t singing.
But now and then she
Hums
Without meaning to.
Side by Side
Clair still stands in the centre
Surrounded by a thick circle of girls.
I can feel their desperation,
The thirst for admission.
It is a dance for popularity,
Swapping places every day,
Knowing that tomorrow
Any one of them could be
out.
Maybe it’s lonely for Clair
There
In the centre
Directing the dance.
She ignores me again,
Which is better than being bullied.
Dalilah and I stand together
Side by side.
There is no one in the centre,
We’re just looking out
In the same direction
Not desperately at one another
Fearing betrayal.
Butterfly
Now that I can front crawl,
Back crawl,
Breaststroke,
I am breaking out.
Ms Morrow is teaching me
The butterfly.
When I am in the water
My body moves like a wave:
There is a violence to it
And a beauty.
I lie on my breast,
My arms outstretched
My legs extended back –
Waiting to kick.
And I pull,
Push,
Recover.
This is how the Butterfly works.
I have to hollow out spaces
For breathing,
And if I miss them
I can’t swim.
But I do.
I know when to come up for air
When to keep my head down.
At practice,
On the starting block
I am not frightened at all:
I am standing on my own,
And it
Never felt so good.
Acknowledgements
This book might never have found the light were it not for several special people: my agent, the wonderful Julia Churchill, who worked tirelessly to read, edit and champion the project; everyone at Bloomsbury, especially my editor, Ele Fountain, for her hard work, insight and sensitivity; the Edward Albee Foundation (its founder and fellows), which gave me the space and time to complete this novel; my friends and early readers, Erin Whitcraft and Jill Wehler; the Hudson School, notably its principal and founder, Suellen Newman, who has always been a remarkable source of support and inspiration; Marta Gut for her invaluable cultural advice on Poland.
Or as happy as she can be for me.
And for now, that’s OK.
Reunion
I am sitting on the
Front steps of our
Building, chewing on a
Peperami, waiting for William,
When Kanoro arrives
Without warning.
I jump to greet him
And he takes me
Into his arms without embarrassment.
‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ he asks.
Mama was standing at our window
Watching me and is down the stairs
Before I have a chance to answer.
Mama runs to Kanoro.
They look stupid together:
Mama is bright-white.
Kanoro is too-black against her.
And yet, the picture is pretty good.
Treat
Kanoro takes Mama to dinner.
She wears a yellow dress
And shoes so high
She wobbles when she walks.
Mama wore that dress once before,
In Gdańsk,
When Tata took her to the theatre
And they came home
Holding hands.
But Mama and Kanoro
Are not hand holding
When they get back from dinner
At all.
They are holding their tummies
Because they ate too many
Tacos
And then they are holding their sides
Laughing.
Kanoro sleeps on the couch
And in the morning,
After tea and toast,
He honks his horn,
Waves from the window of his
New car and disappears
On to the ring road.
I watch Mama closely,
Afraid she will rearrange herself
Into grief.
‘People usually come back, Mama,’
I say, and she nods
As she folds the sheer yellow dress and
Lays it neatly in a drawer.
‘I think I need a haircut,’ she says.
Resurrection
Mama is alive again,
A little bit alive.
She isn’t singing.
But now and then she
Hums
Without meaning to.
Side by Side
Clair still stands in the centre
Surrounded by a thick circle of girls.
I can feel their desperation,
The thirst for admission.
It is a dance for popularity,
Swapping places every day,
Knowing that tomorrow
Any one of them could be
out.
Maybe it’s lonely for Clair
There
In the centre
Directing the dance.
She ignores me again,
Which is better than being bullied.
Dalilah and I stand together
Side by side.
There is no one in the centre,
We’re just looking out
In the same direction
Not desperately at one another
Fearing betrayal.
Butterfly
Now that I can front crawl,
Back crawl,
Breaststroke,
I am breaking out.
Ms Morrow is teaching me
The butterfly.
When I am in the water
My body moves like a wave:
There is a violence to it
And a beauty.
I lie on my breast,
My arms outstretched
My legs extended back –
Waiting to kick.
And I pull,
Push,
Recover.
This is how the Butterfly works.
I have to hollow out spaces
For breathing,
And if I miss them
I can’t swim.
But I do.
I know when to come up for air
When to keep my head down.
At practice,
On the starting block
I am not frightened at all:
I am standing on my own,
And it
Never felt so good.
Acknowledgements
This book might never have found the light were it not for several special people: my agent, the wonderful Julia Churchill, who worked tirelessly to read, edit and champion the project; everyone at Bloomsbury, especially my editor, Ele Fountain, for her hard work, insight and sensitivity; the Edward Albee Foundation (its founder and fellows), which gave me the space and time to complete this novel; my friends and early readers, Erin Whitcraft and Jill Wehler; the Hudson School, notably its principal and founder, Suellen Newman, who has always been a remarkable source of support and inspiration; Marta Gut for her invaluable cultural advice on Poland.
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