In bed the next morning I lie very still. My head pounds. A brown tabby cat jumps into the flower box outside my window. She looks a lot like Mishka, a cat we once had at home.
The line between here
and nowhere
is a fine one.
Remember Mishka?
One minute a cat crossing a lawn
following something—
How did I get from a cat at the window to a memory? And how did I get from there to a poem? The poem links one death to another. It fills the page in my notebook.
Dead in the middle of the road
thin trickle of blood
oozing out of his delicate nose.
Press his still-warm body
to my nine-year-old chest
Wait for the rise and fall of the living
wait for the stillness to burst back
into flame
wait for the rake of claws across my
arms
let me go let me go let me go.
Nothing moves.
Breathe, I whisper.
Breathe.
On the line
between here and nowhere
I wait for Hannah.
On my side of the line
my sister’s seventeenth birthday
appears with the turn of the
calendar page.
On her side of the line
the first anniversary
of her death.
I never saw my sister’s body.
Never had a chance
to squeeze the breath
back into her.
Never had a chance
to feel the warmth easing away
to whatever place warmth goes
when no longer needed.
That place on her side of the line.
There are so many mysteries about Hannah’s death. The one I cannot wrap my head around is how she pushed her body across the line. Wasn’t there a struggle?
For the next three days I carry around the poem about the cat and the line between life and death. I cross things out, move stuff, and squeeze in new lines and extra words. Then I start to memorize and plan how to deliver it at the next slam.
The crowd at the Xpress Yourself Espresso Bar is silent until the last words are done.
The applause folds around me. I’m still wondering about Hannah’s final moments, how she found the strength to take that last step.
Clarissa, tonight’s emcee, gives me a quick hug. “Good!” she whispers. Then she gently guides me off the stage.
“You’re doing great,” Maddy says. “How are you holding up?”
Maddy and Ebony stand on either side of me in the hallway leading to the bathroom.
“Okay,” I say, though that’s a lie. I am so tired I can hardly stand. Four of us are through into the last round of the evening. The points we earn tonight will keep us all in the running for the team.
I met Maddy and Ebony right after I moved here. We’re in a writing group along with three other girls. The other girls don’t always show up. But me, Maddy, and Ebony—we’d have to be in comas before we missed a meeting.
Ebony and I have done a few poems together, like the ringing phone we performed last week. But we’re also competing against each other. Maddy doesn’t have a competitive bone in her body—at least, not for herself. She’s pretty loud when it comes to cheering for us.
It would be so great if both Ebony and I made the team. More likely, one of us won’t survive these early rounds. It would almost be better if neither of us got to go.
I’m sure that, after the team’s announced, we’ll be happy for whoever gets on. For now, it’s strange being supported by someone who needs to beat me. It’s just as hard to smile and congratulate her after a strong round.
“Which poem are you going to do?” Maddy asks.
“The last supper poem.” They’ve both heard all my poems in our writing group. If they disagree with my choice, they don’t say.
Somehow, when I am back onstage the exhaustion fades away. From some place deep inside I find the words. They are all lined up, ready to march out into the world.
When you are hungry, eat.
Garlic smashed potatoes
peas and mint sauce
roast chicken—rosemary, thyme.
Enjoy every buttered roll
every sprinkle of salt
because you never know when one
supper
becomes the last supper.
The last time we believe
she might actually appear
in time for dessert.
These are the things I wonder aloud:
Should we wait to begin
or start without her?
Did she leave a message?
Wasn’t she meeting a friend?
Was she looking for a ride home?
—you know how she feels
about buses.
These are the things I wonder in
silence:
Where is she?
When will she be back?
Do I lie about hearing the phone
ring?
Is there a reason for this stab of
dread?
or is the stab of dread
something I added later
the something I should have felt.
My father out of his chair, grumbling
Telemarketers—they wait until
people are eating.
Hello? Yes—she is my daughter.
Where is she? What happened?
The serving spoon heavy in my
hand
hangs over the bowl of mashed
potatoes.
My mother’s face, pale
what? what is it?
my father slaps at his pockets
fumbles for his keys
accident
what kind of accident?
all of us running
the serving spoon still in my hand
as I reach the door
no time to go back
no time to ask questions
no time no time
I drop the spoon
sticky with the last meal
Hannah never shared with us
drop the spoon on the boot tray
scramble out the door
and into the late evening sun
fall into the rolling car
pull the door shut.
After, Maddy and Ebony wrap their arms around me. We wait to hear the results of the judging.