“Put your hands together for Tara Manson!”
I step into the spotlight. The audience is out there, though I can’t see them.
This moment is mine. I can say anything in my poems.
Have you ever faced fear
and jumped
into churning waters
So deep there is no bottom?
I have. At the waterslides.
There’s always a chuckle after I say that line. Maybe I look too heavy to be a waterslide type. Whatever. It’s my job to deliver the poem. The audience hears what they want to hear.
I change my voice so I sound like I’m in a commercial.
Splash Kingdom!
Your fun in the sun
place to plunge
in and away from
what really matters.
Then I go back to my normal voice.
So what
if the phone ringing
in your beach bag
needs to be answered.
Here, I point at the audience.
No. You don’t get it.
Not like a hey, hi, how’s it going?
see you later, whatever
kind of call
but a message you need to get now
not tomorrow
not some other time
but right this second or
someone will die.
Then I start again, softly.
When fun calls
it’s wrong to ignore
sun and sweat
skin on skin
his lips on mine
my lips drinking him in
this wild ride down
slippery when wet
curves ahead.
Fun is all good, right?
Here’s where I speed up and get louder.
THIS is all that matters
because we only live once
and all that living
is churned and pushed into
one glorious afternoon at the
waterslides.
You hear what I’m saying?
How can they hear what I’m saying? I can speak fast and loud, but they can’t really know what it was like that day last summer. One year ago—today. The whole, long, sun-baked day David and I played, splashed, laughed…while Hannah was—
The sound of fingers clicking moves through the audience. They think I’ve lost my place. This is their way of telling me to keep going.
Plunge feet first
Down Big Mountain
Time Tunnel
Jumbo Splash
Race and giggle
catch each other
and sprint to the snack stand
hot dogs and plastic cheese.
I ignore the ringing phone, for once.
Turn my back on her, for once.
Snap it shut. Click it off, for once.
Toss it under a damp towel
and forget
that outside this moment
in my heat-soaked day
a tragedy unfolds
one phone call away.
The applause washes over me. I dip in a modest bow.
Rick, the host, shakes my hand. “Careful going down the steps,” he says. “Judges, let’s see your scores for Miss Tara…”
He calls them out. The low score is a 7.1 and the high an 8.9. That should be enough to get me through to the second round of the poetry slam.
When I touch my fingertip to my cheek, it’s wet. When I touch my fingertip to my tongue, I taste salt.