My mother says

I was dancing, dancing, dancing

Inside her before I was even

born.

She could feel my legs kicking

Bump-bump, bump-bump

And she says that when I was

born

I came out twirling

As I would turn and glide

As if I’d dance

Right out of her life.

She says it made her giggle,

But it scared her, too.

She’d only just met me

And she wanted to see me

Grow up to be a dancer.

She says I’ve been dancing,

dancing, dancing,

Ever since.

My teacher told us today

To make a list of things we fear.

I didn’t want to.

I don’t like being scared.

Until she told us

That later we would make

Lists of things we love.

Things I Fear:

I am afraid of guns

And of the people who use them.

I am afraid that

The innocent will suffer

And the guilty will not.

I’m afraid that the victims will die

And there won’t be the heaven

We all pray to.

I’m scared that there won’t be

A heaven to ascend to

There is a God, somewhere,

But is this heaven really

What we think it is?

What I love:

I love dancing,

Smooth marley beneath me

Lights above,

Chairs in front.

My second home,

The dance studio.

I love laughter,

Laughing is good for my soul

It makes honey light

In my heart.

I love a lot of things,

Some things are invisible

And some you can touch.

Others still are too private

To share.

Sometimes

We dance in socks

Mostly shorts and t-shirts.

Mostly,

We dance in shoes.

I like to wear socks

To be able to slide

Over smooth floor.

When it’s sunny,

Or even when it pours,

We are always hot

And we stand on the sidewalk,

In our socks,

On Main Street,

In frigid February weather.

It feels like seventy-degree day

Barely windy,

Snow? What snow?

The people driving in their cars

Down one of the biggest streets

In our small town

Look at us

Probably thinking,

What are those crazy teenagers

Doing out in shorts

With no jackets?

I am in Studio A,

The biggest one,

Prepping for an eleventh try

At my turns.

My teacher perches

on the bench behind,

And I am in the middle

In front of her

She studies me from top to bottom.

She is eyeing my knees –

Are they straight?

And my arms and feet.

Don’t hop and slide!

She says.

And spot sharp.

My turns don’t look like turns

In her eyes, and mine

I don’t know how I’ll do it,

On stage, will it be a turn

In the eyes of the judges?

I have only two

And a half minutes

To show them what I’m worth.

After my fifteenth dizzying turn

My teacher reaches out

Towards me,

As if she wants to grab my hand.

I know now!

She cries proudly.

I know! Come here.

Her mouth is wide,

Like a donut,

And her eyes are gleeful.

Come here, Claire.

She repeats.

And so I come and stand

In front of her.

She takes my hands,

And makes another donut

With my arms.

There!

She says.

You have to keep your arms UP

And support them.

And then there!

My next turn

Hits three. Again and again.

I jump for joy.

I can do a triple, easy.

I prep again and go

And again I hit a nearly perfect

Triple turn.

All rehearsal I think about is

My turns

Growing in number

Increasing,

Thanks to my arms.

When our teacher bans

A series of words:

Like,

Very,

Pretty,

Stuff,

Big

She has us come up with

Different words, with

The same meanings.

She calls them “synonyms”

Which sounds like

Cinnamons

And she has us look up

Cinnamons in the

Thesaurus.

I chose “sunny”

Meaning summery, and joyful,

Because I always feel this way

When I’m dancing.

Brilliant

Clarion

Cloudless

Luminous

Pleasant

Radiant

Blissful

Content

Delighted

Ecstatic

Elated

Exultant

Gleeful

Gay

Jolly

Joyful

Jubilant

Lively

Merry

Mirthful

Upbeat

There were so many

Cinnamons for sunny

I hardly could write them all.

In fact, I couldn’t capture

All the ones I liked

In my little vault of words

I have locked away selfishly

To use in the books I’ll write

When I am older.

For a while I was quite

Ecstatic

Because I had found so many

Cinnamons for happy.

But before long I realized

There are other words

For emotion.

They do not all mean happy.

Blue is every little boy’s

Favorite color.

But associated with blue

Is sad.

Bitter

Cheerless

Dejected

Despairing

Despondent

Dismal

Depressed

Forlorn

Lugubrious

(which happens to be my new

favorite cinnamon)

Melancholy

Pensive

Pessimistic

Somber

Woebegone

Grieving

Weeping

Downcast

Heavyhearted

Bereaved

Upset

Tearful

And then I was quite

Cheerless because

I realized that not everyone

Is always as elated as I.

And that made my heart sink

And I new I would write

A tribute

For the poor, unfortunate,

And depressed

And I knew I would try

With all my human being

To make them contented

Again.

I was in Chicago,

The “Windy City”

With my family.

I saw a man

Covered in a ratty blanket

With a kind face

And goodhearted eyes.

He was missing his front teeth,

Cowering behind a silicone cup

Asking cruel passerby

To spare the change

They certainly could.

His eyes were despairing

But his mouth was smiling

I ducked into a shop

Filled with green

And pulled out my

Irish leather wallet.

I wondered if I really did need

My Irish leather wallet

Filled with cash

That that man didn’t have.

So I pulled out a five dollar bill

And hurried back to wear he sat

Up against a sign that hung low

To the ground.

I haven’t forgotten his face

The way he looked up at me

Like I was an angel

Sent from Heaven.

I wasn’t.

I saw chap-stick

And a meager dollar bill in that

Silicone cup.

I donated my five dollars

With a smile.

God bless you,

He told me.

And I just smiled

Feeling very pleasant.

And now all I want to say to him

Is GOD BLESS YOU

In a loud, proud voice

For all of the Windy City

To hear.

The taxi drivers

That towed us around

The Windy City

Were all somber

Quiet, and downcast.

Until a white taxi

Pulled up to the W hotel.

The car door opened for

My mother,

And a merry face

Smiled back at her.

He was talkative,

Jolly, and mirthful.

He said he was from Benin,

He was twenty-five,

And he was going to school

To be a physician.

His accent was heavy

And delicious to listen to.

It was like honey.

He treated us kindly,

And Mom tipped him well.

We all wanted very much

For our taxi driver

To be a physician.

His smiling face is stored

In a special locked bank

With all the gleeful

Faces that I have ever seen.

It is right next to the

Grateful face of the

Silicone Cup Man.

It is in special lockdown

Where it can never escape

My mind.

Nothing that enters the vault,

My vault,

Ever leaves.

The locks can’t be picked.

The walls and doors are airtight.

It’s like a prison

Filled with innocent,

Joyful people.

That’s why they’re there.

The Silicone Cup Man

Has his own cell.

It has a large bed,

And a huge couch

And a 52” screen.

And endless food.

The Taxi Man has

A cell painted cheerful

Yellow, with

His African family there

To smile and laugh

And talk with him.

There’s also a spot

For the grateful woman

Whom I helped get through

The door with her stroller.

The biggest cell

Is for the biggest smile:

It’s the face of my old,

Crotchety grandmother

Whenever I come to visit

Their two-story

Sunny yellow house.

The smallest cell

Is for the rarest,

But most beautiful smile,

A smile rare because I don’t

Often see its bearer:

My father’s sister.

Her smile is wonderful,

Taking up her whole face,

So it needs a special lock

Since it only appears so often,

And the key

Is always strung on a

Silk ribbon

In my pocket

Saved for later.

There are six kids

Considered “cousins”

In my family.

There are only four places

At the round wood table

In the yellow kitchen,

Whose walls are

Embellished in embroidery.

I am one of the four

Who have gained and kept

A place at the sacred table.

Of course, after years,

It loses its importance,

And the adult table

Becomes all the rage.

Why are we,

Recently becoming

Legitimate teens,

Made to sit with the two

Nine-year-old devils.

We must get up to get

Our macaroni,

And we are supervised

As we sneak rolls.

The fourteen-year-old

Graduated to the adult table,

And now he sits next to the

Queen.

We all share a grandma,

Who we might find sarcastic,

And very funny,

Who claimed a throne

At the head of the table.

She has decided who is worthy

To still reside at

The little-kid table.

She passes the macaroni

She made,

And the Chesapeake crab cakes,

And we gobble it down.

Delicious.

But I don’t eat the carrot Jello

She made.

I butter my roll,

Toss green beans on a plate,

And plop down in my chair,

At the little-kid table.

I realized

That it would take

A person who would put

Albert Einstein to shame

To think up something

So complex as language.

The English language

Is one of the hardest to learn.

And I noticed that I was lucky

That English was my

Native tongue.

As I sit in Spanish class

Reciting the many regular verbs

Understanding,

Feeling a crazy sensation of

Achievement.

It would take a real

Smarty-pants to invent

This communication system

We are so lucky to have.

A thousand Einsteins have lived

And won’t even be recognized.

All of this technology we have

Nowadays is so awe-inspiring.

Laptops, televisions,

Cars and buses and airplanes.

It is all so mind-boggling.

In a few centuries we have evolved

From helpless human beings

Their world entirely covered

By forests housing kings

To destructive, genius humans

Who rule with an iron fist.

Where will we be

In just a century?

The Human Footprint

Has made its mark

In the ever-changing sands

Of time.

We began as apes,

With little to no communication.

Over thousands of years

We evolved.

Our footprint appeared.

They will, at some point,

Disappear as the salty wind

Whips the powder into shape

A clean slate,

A smooth tan dune.

Over the crest of that dune

Awaits our fate:

Death and destruction

Total oblivion.

There will come a point

Where our footprints

Come over the hill

And we will die.

No one will be left to remember

The Einsteins of our time.

Instead there will just be

A quiet blackness

That we will never be a part of.

Or maybe a new species

Will start following our

Footsteps

Through the years

Until they reach

The crest of that hill.

Every morning

I wake up

And just make sure

I haven’t died in my sleep

I try to remember the

Crazy, colorful dream

That engulfed me for hours.

I remember details

And how it all made sense

While I was still asleep

But when my eyes open

All the places

Colors, thoughts, and faces

Are a blur.

I don’t know what

I was doing,

What I was saying,

And who those people were.

I feel as if I was in

Alice in Wonderland,

The Mad Hatter chuckling,

The Red Queen shouting,

And the little Teacup Mouse

Singing her eerie song.

That was one

Of my favorite movies

As a child.

I liked to imagine myself

As Alice, the wonderful heroine,

And wished I could just

Be transported

Right over to Wonderland

To play with the Cheshire Cat

Until I woke.

But I wouldn’t wake.

It would all be real,

Just as real as the honey sunlight

That cascades through the clouds

Every morning when I wake.

By the way,

Whoever came up with this

Idea of the perfect heaven

Where there is no sorrow

Or hard work?

A place after we die

Where we go

With endless food

And shelter

And love?

Some people believe in it

So strongly

So powerfully.

I don’t know

What is after life.

If there is anything.

I think there is

But it won’t be Pearly Gates

Leading you up into

A perfect, eternal afterlife.

I think some people

Deep down inside

Don’t believe in it,

But only half

Can come out and know it.

The human race will end

Over that sand dune

And where will we go?

Certainly heaven isn’t big enough

To house every person who

Ever lived. Or died.

Where will we all go?

It is easy to sink into

These stories of a flawless afterlife

And it’s hard to break away

From the tradition.

There is something awaiting us,

Be it the Pearly Gates

Or be it something

No one was expecting.

But no one knows for sure.

At the end of the day

The sky bleeds crimson

Like our hearts

As our beloved closes their eyes

This long, long day is a set

Of millions of wonderful days

And terrible days.

But does it all end

So peacefully, so pleasantly,

Like we close our eyes

And sink into a deep sleep?

No.

The victims of the bomb,

At the end of their long journey

The Boston Marathon,

Were blown up,

Their lives ending in seconds.

When my life ends,

I will pray that it will end

In my hospital bed,

With hands grasping mine.

But the truth is,

Reality hits us hard.

At the end of the day,

It all ends in a blink.

We fall asleep,

And we don’t wake up.

Secrets whisper

Like the soft coo

Of a sea breeze

Or the lap-lap of waves

Or the swish-swish

Of pointed toes

Sweeping across gray marley.

They speak quietly,

Almost too quietly to hear

In your ear with words

No one else can know.

These words are locked away

In your brain under lock

And key

No one else finds out

About them. They are

secret, unknown,

Forbidden.

But they eventually slip

From your lips in a breath

Of air, a sigh of delight.

They are out, no longer

Cooped up in that cramped

Brain of yours.

And somehow they flee

And escapee of the dark damp

Cellar protected by a thick skull

With two eyes for windows

Two ears for speakers

A mouth to broadcast.

Secrets are liars, troublemakers

Some are light, not a burden

They creep into your thoughts

Like crazy seeping darkness

They steal away while you dream,

With a hideous cackle

They depart unceremoniously.

Tomorrow they are gone, their

Shackles left behind the gates.

It runs through, worthless

To you now.

It is a wild bear, untamed,

A feral cat, a soaring eagle.

A secret will draw its talons

So quickly, so aggressively,

And it will strike with a smile.

The book

That I call my life

Is long and bound

In leather and gold.

The letters are written

In a plain, clear font.

Each chapter is filled

With wonderful adventures.

I am still only in the first

Chapter.

I am reaching the last pages.

Soon a big bold “2”

Will title a page

Only half filled

With scribbles.

I have only lived

In the one chapter.

Thirteen years

I have resided in

A small town,

With a group of friends,

Going to the same school.

The next chapter

I will only be able

To look back at the previous

Chapter with nostalgia,

And visit my past

With the friends that I had

For more than a decade.

I will cry.

But I will smile too,

Because the next chapter

Can only be better than the last,

Because whoever heard of

A book that got worse

As the pages turned?

I will make new friends,

And find new schools,

Because at some point,

One must sigh

And turn the last page

And trudge off into

Their next chapter.