China Knowles—Monday Night—They All Do
I’m China and I’m a walking iambic pentameter after reading sonnets for an hour at the end of the school day. Shane sits with a new friend on the bus—a kid he met in his government class. He looks happy. No one knows he’s a lizard inside. No one knows he’s mine.
We decided to keep that a secret.
My mother logged on to our survivor site last night and has asked the collective what she should do to help me. I haven’t looked at the answers, but she texted me twice today to tell me she loves me and I didn’t find it too intrusive.
We can’t figure out if we should tell Dad when he gets back or not.
I told her I didn’t want him looking at me any differently.
“He won’t,” she said.
“They all do,” I said.
We decided to talk about it again another time.
Lansdale, Stanzi, and I sit in my basement, now half Shane’s room and half not-Shane’s-room. I tell them I have no poems today.
“You always have poems,” Lansdale says.
“And you always have long hair,” I say.
“This is all my fault,” Stanzi says.
I say, “Okay. I have one poem.” I hand it to Stanzi to read it, but I realize that she’s weaker than I am now, so I take it back and I read it myself.
How to Tell If Your Life Is Real
If you wake up and you
no longer own a stuffed monkey
and you no longer own
a sweater that shames you
and you no longer fear
anything because someone
said
I
believe
you
then your life is probably real.
If you go to bed and you
no longer fear waking up
and you no longer fear
a boy who shamed you
telling the truth because
someone said
I
love
you
then your life is undeniably real.
When I’m done reading the poem, we decide to go see the bush man, Kenneth. As we approach his corner, we hear music.
Then, before we can see who’s playing, he grabs me and takes me into the bush by myself. He hands me three poems. My poems. I don’t know where he got them. He says, “These are good. These are the answers.”