Slams are different from regular poetry readings. At an old-fashioned poetry reading the audience is polite even when the poetry sucks. At a slam, crowds sometimes hiss and boo. Things aren’t quite that bad tonight, but I’m not surprised when my name is not one of the four second-round winners.
Ebony advances and so does a skinny guy called Mike. He looks about twelve but he’s actually twenty. Mike is hilarious. He does a poem about the war between a procrastinator and his conscience. We’re all grabbing for napkins so we don’t spray our drinks everywhere.
Karl, the German guy, moves on, even though I don’t think his second poem is that great. Rosie, the fast-talking food girl, is the fourth poet to survive to round three.
It’s a relief, in a way, to be able to sit back and listen.
The last round is intense. Ebony does a great job with a poem about the pleasures of sleep. I doubt I’m the only one ready for bed by the time she’s done. Even though Karl’s poem about a puppet is really clever, he doesn’t stand a chance, and Ebony winds up being the big winner of the night.
“Congratulations,” I say. “Nice,” I add, examining her gift basket. It’s full of fancy chocolates and good coffee. She also won the big cash prize of thirty-five bucks.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling. “Sorry about tonight.”
I shrug. “It’s okay,” I say, though it isn’t.
The organizers of the slam series are over behind the counter, punching calculator buttons. Tonight’s the night they announce the team. It would be better to know if I’m not going. We all hold hands under the table when the emcee, Blake, steps up on the stage and grabs the mic.
“What an exciting series this has been. Let’s have a round of applause for all the poets.”
I squeeze Ebony’s hand and she squeezes back.
“As I announce the winners’ names, please come up here onstage so we can share the love!” Hoots and whoops fill the coffee shop. “The following fine poets will represent our fair city at the National Poetry Slam to be held in Corinthian two weeks from now!”
“Karl Meisner—”
“I knew he’d make it,” Maddy says.
“Tiffany Hwan. And…Ebony Graham.”
I let go of Ebony’s hand. “Congratulations!” Ebony’s huge grin says it all.
“We have an odd situation here,” Blake says as Ebony joins the others onstage. “We have a tie for fourth place—Tara Manson and Rosie McCarthy. Would you lovely ladies please join us up on stage?”
Stunned, I do as I’m told.
“We’re allowed to send four team members and one alternate. One of you two will be our fourth and the other the alternate, and…” Blake shuffles through his papers and then asks Geoff, who’s in charge of the sound system, “What did we decide?”
“We didn’t!” Geoff booms from the back of the room. “We’ll figure out a fair way to choose our fourth, but either way, you’re both going to Nationals.”
That seems to be enough to satisfy the crowd, and the place erupts into a wild frenzy of cheers and clapping.
Ebony gives me a huge hug. “Two weeks!” she says. “Corinthian, here we come!”
Back at our table, we’re joined by the other team members and a skinny boy I’ve seen before but have never met.
“They should have just picked one of us,” Rosie says. She probably means they should have picked her. “It’s not fair to not know who’s on and who’s not.”
“You’re both going,” Ebony says. “They have special events for the alternates.”
“So cool you get to go again,” the skinny boy says. Karl is the only one who has been to Nationals before.
“Do you guys all know my brother, Ossie?” he asks, nudging the skinny boy with his elbow.
We exchange greetings and order another round of drinks. It’s late and we’re still buzzing when the baristas start sweeping up around us.
“Do you want to walk home?” Ebony asks.
“Good plan.” I’m wide awake now.
“I can walk with you as far as the train station,” Rosie says.
I don’t know Rosie very well. Chatting with Ebony won’t be the same. Then again, we’re sort of teammates, so I suck it up and say, “Sure. You live over that way?”
“On Fifth. About two minutes from the station.”
Everyone else fades into the night and we head down Bingham Street. A light rain starts to fall when we take the shortcut through the park.
“What poem were you going to do if you’d made it through to the last round tonight?” Ebony asks.
Is she wondering if I performed the right pieces? If I had done things a little differently, maybe I would have had the extra point I needed to make the team. We’re supposed to find out about the final decision at a team meeting in two days. How are they going to decide?
“I was going to do ‘Obituary. ’”
“Is that the one where your family is fighting about what to put in the paper?”
“That’s the one.”
“Can you do poetry and walk at the same time?” Ebony asks.
“That’s okay. I’m sure Rosie doesn’t want to—”
“No, go ahead.” Rosie’s slow to say it.
Ebony barges in. “Don’t be shy! Go on. There’s nothing like an obituary poem to take your mind off the rain!”
Rosie shoves her hands deep in her pockets and keeps walking.
“You might need to do it at Nationals. Every chance to practice is good, right?”
I can’t argue with that. “Fine.”
The dark shapes of trees and bushes are hiding places for who knows what kinds of people that haunt the park at night. The louder I am, the more likely I’ll scare them off.
Fill in the blanks
and come up with an acceptable
obituary.
Our beloved so-and-so
taken too early
to return to God
leaving behind
loving husband wife
two sons a daughter
grandchildren
a dog
…after a valiant battle
cancer, stroke
Lived a full and happy life
old age.
Thank you to the caring staff
the loving helpers at hospice
instead of flowers
donations to this charity
in the name of Uncle Jack
we have established a fund.
A celebration of life will be held
on the mountaintop she loved best
at such-and-such a church, funeral home
pay your respects, share your
memories
we’ll scatter the ashes at sea.
What obituaries do not say is
Uncle Edward died by his own hand
unable to see his way clear of debt.
Following a struggle with depression
the demons finally got to Father
the bastards sucked him into the
barrel of a gun.
There is no mention of the broken
brains
drowning in voids so black
the only way out lies at the end of a
noose
or in the path of an oncoming bus.
Where are those deaths?
Where is the S-word
in this public listing of grief?
This collection of acceptable ends
shameful the way it
leaves out those
who just could not go on
twice erased
but never forgotten.
The reason lies in the mothers
sisters fathers holy men who say
there are right ways to die
and then there are sins.
This is true even for non-believers
like my mother
who sweeps the scribbled draft
off the dining room table and
declares
the bus driver a murderer
at least guilty of manslaughter—
A leave of absence in no way
compensates for what he has
done to this family.
Her logic sound because
There was no note.
Except, there is a note
slim and invisible in my underwear
drawer.
What made me
march upstairs
to retrieve that package
slide it across the table
and watch it come to rest in front of
her?
What sense of justice
grow up
get on with it
act like the adult
you are supposed to be
made me spit out the words
There’s your note.
By the time you read this
I will be gone.
Don’t be sad it’s better like
this.
The reading of it
Dropped my mother
carried her out of the room
on a wave of wailing
sobs shaking her body
Someone killed my baby.
Someone should pay.
You won’t find any of that
splashed across
the back pages of the paper
no matter how closely you read
between the lines
looking for stories of those
who met an unexpected end.
I finish as we stop at the corner at the north end of the park. Ebony is quiet, and beside me, Rosie’s shoulders are hunched. She sniffles. Allergies? In the light of the streetlamp her cheeks glisten.
“Rosie! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
At first I think it’s about the competition—that she’s upset about maybe being an alternate. But then she starts to sob in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m so sorry.”