A lot of familiar faces have come to Persephone’s to see the big poetry showdown. There’s an open mic first and then, instead of having a featured poet, Rosie and I will be the main course.
We’ll each perform three poems, to be judged just like a regular slam. Whoever gets more points will take the fourth spot on the team.
Ebony and Maddy show up just as the first open-mic reader is being introduced.
I can’t listen properly. What should I perform? Should I do something old? Pre-Hannah?
When the open-mic readers are done, I whisper an apology in Rosie’s ear. Then I head for the stage.
The monster who took the maiden
was lonely as dust
so lonely he would stop at nothing
to possess all of her.
Dark as a mountain
slicing into the soft belly of the sky
he followed her
watched as she stumbled.
The monster grew fat and happy
dining on rot wherever he found it—
compost bins, landfills, graveyards.
The maiden loved to fly
was once so alive she threw herself
against obstacles
off rooftops
knowing at the last moment
she would rise
soar in one great arc heavenward
land breathless and grinning on the
other side
already charging forward.
No hesitation
no what-ifs
no but-I-can’ts
just a fast gallop over grass
aboard a blessed unicorn.
Until she crashed into a murky pool
where the monster lay waiting
a monster slippery as any
water-dweller
hooked claws sank into damaged
flesh
an embrace she was powerless to
resist.
She knew he was there
but such was his power
she didn’t run away
didn’t invite him in
didn’t have to.
He pushed his way inside
until he filled her
made her sway to the rhythm of his
counting
one two three four
take that step
and be no more.
The poem goes on to tell how the monster does terrible things to the maiden in his underwater cave. The lines one two three four / take that step / and be no more repeat several times. By the last one even I’m sick of it. The poem isn’t good enough.
The judges agree. My scores aren’t terrible, but they aren’t great either. The average is around 7.6 or 7.7.
Rosie is up next and she gets the crowd right into her poem about the power of dessert. Even I have to laugh when she rolls her eyes and describes the ecstasy of diving into a chocolate layer cake. It’s a crowd-pleaser for sure. Her lowest score is an 8.2.
Not a good start for me.
When I’m back on the stage, Ebony gives me a small nod of encouragement.
When the coffin drops the last few
inches
the soft scrape of wood against dirt
tears a hole in the sky
and I am falling.
My aunt whispers, hold on hold on
as if this instruction can steady us all
stop my mother from
throwing herself in
after Hannah.
Wedged between my father my uncle
aunts grandmothers cousins
somehow I stand
anchored by the scent of lilies
heavy in my hands.
When you’re ready
The uncle nudges me
not knowing I am blind
can’t see the edge of the pit
through this sea of tears.
Every bad horror movie
I’ve ever seen
plays in the background
claws pushing aside dirt
black eyes, staring
what if she isn’t in there?
what if she is, but isn’t dead?
why, really, did they keep the casket
closed?
Her dress ragged
her fists pounding, pounding
on the inside of the lid—
let me out let me out
let me come back, please.
I promise
I won’t do it again.
All these people
pushing her back
shh, Hannah—you are at peace
now—
shh, Hannah—your pain is done—
close your weary eyes
and…what?
enjoy your final resting place?
When the coffin drops the last few
inches
the earth falls away beneath my feet
and I soar
like a black bird
swooping above
the heads bowed
with the weight of rules that say
when a child dies thou shalt be sad
when a child turns her back on you
forgive her.
My scores are a little better this time—all in the low 8s. Rosie’s next poem is not nearly as funny as her first one. It’s about how she learned to puke on demand. She talks fast and smooth, like someone selling fancy knives on tv. Her scores are pretty close to mine.
We take a short break after that. Rosie and I wind up beside each other in the hallway, waiting for the bathroom.
“Did you see this?” Rosie points at a flyer pinned to a notice board.
Suicide Survivors Support Group
“I used to go,” she adds matter-of-factly.
The thought of being in a room full of people who have lost someone to suicide makes me shudder.
“I haven’t been for a while. It was so…sad. And hard. But it was good too in a way—you know?”
I don’t, but I nod anyway.
“It might be different—better—if I went with someone.”
She can’t seriously expect that I’ll go with her?
The door opens to the bathroom and she slips inside. I think of her puking poem and wonder what she’s doing in there. Do we never get to leave our pasts behind?
“Good luck,” she says when she comes out.
“You too,” I answer.
For my third poem I do “A Bus Rolls into the Shower Stall.” The scores are good, but if Rosie has a strong finish, she’ll win easily.
When it’s Rosie’s turn, it’s obvious she’s nervous, which isn’t like her at all. Her hands quiver and she licks her lips several times before taking the microphone.
The day I jumped from the
Wishbone Bridge
the sky was clear as a window to
heaven…
Ossie reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I cannot tear my eyes from Rosie’s face as she recites her poem. She is both radiant and terrified. Instead of her usual rapid-fire style, she delivers the opening lines in a slow, smooth roll of images. She stands on a bridge, silently apologizing to her family. She reminds herself why she is there, dizzy when she looks down at the water so far below.
Then she switches to a faster delivery and throws a string of abuse at herself, at us—
Fat worthless slug
ugly and useless
you deserve this and only this
Then she steps over the rail. Here Rosie slows down again and describes the moment of letting go, the moment when she teeters at the edge.
Is it too late
to reach for the railing
and pull myself to safety?
Falling. Falling.
Then there’s the terrible moment when she realizes that she has just made an awful mistake. A mistake that’s too late to fix.
I hold my breath and wait, wait, wait for the impact. Rosie slams into the water.
The bones in my feet shatter
ribs crack
my screams drown
in the siren’s wail.
She delivers the final lines in a sweet, tender voice.
To be alive is to live with pain
knowing this, I’ll never jump again.
When she comes back to the table I wrap her in a fierce hug. She doesn’t pull away. We both burst into tears. All the hurt and grief and fury sobs out. She understands. I understand.
The organizer calls for a ten-minute break. It’s just long enough for us to splash some cold water on our faces in the washroom.
“Ready?” I ask before we head back out into the bistro.
“Ready,” Rosie says.
I have never cared less about the outcome of a slam. Rosie wins, which comes as no surprise to any of us. When I congratulate her, I mean it.