Free Full Cicada Moon by Marilyn Hilton

flashlight shining on it from different angles.
    He could not know how beautiful my moon was
    and how hard I worked on it.
    The worst part about all this—
    worse than having my moon stolen—
    is that I’m now in Group B,
    and I won’t win first prize.
    And David’s water mill
    moved into my spot in Group A.
    David won’t look at me
    as we stand beside our projects,
    waiting for the results.

Bad Dreams
    You know
    those bad dreams
    that make you glad
    they were only dreams?
    I wish
    I could wake up
    from bad days.

Learning Japanese
    Tuesday after the Science Groove,
    Karen and Kim sit at a table in the cafeteria
    and hang their pocketbooks on the chairs.
    I take my tray over to them, and ask,
    â€œDo you still want to learn Japanese?”
    â€œYes,” they say, nodding so hard the table teeters.
    â€œTeach us some words.”
    â€œOkay, here’s one—
baka
.”
    â€œ
Baka
,” they repeat. “What’s that mean?”
    â€œWell, it’s hard to translate . . . but it’s a sign
    of respect,” I say,
    and hold my hand over my mouth like Mama.
    This is fun.
    â€œLike, you say it to teachers?”
    â€œThat’s right. And your parents.”
    â€œIs that what your mom says to your dad?”
    â€œAll the time,” I say,
    and pick up my tray to go.
    â€œSit with us,” they say,
    and smile.
    That’s when I stop laughing
    and almost tell them the truth.
    That’s when I wish I could tell them
    how much it hurts and how lonely I feel—
    which is why I just taught them a word
    my mom would be ashamed to know
    that I know.

Party Snacks
    Next Friday is the last day of school, so
    Mr. Pease is holding up a sheet of paper
    in homeroom. “Quiet down, students.
    Please sign-up for our end-of-the year party.
    You can bring any kind of snack,
    like brownies or potato chips.”
    He gives the paper to Robert
    in the first seat in the first row.
    When it comes around to me,
    I write
Sushi
, even though I haven’t asked Mama
    if she’ll make it.
    Then I look at what I’ve written
    and think of the faces
    the kids will make when they see the sushi
    and the tone of their voices
    when they ask, “You eat raw fish?”
    even though that sushi would have cooked shrimp
    and eggs
    and vegetables,
    or maybe hot dogs.
    So I cross out
Sushi
    and write
Chocolate chip cookies
.

The End of the Beginning
    It’s the last day of school.
    The last day of my seventh grade.
    And the last class of my last day
    of seventh grade
    is English.
    Mr. Pease is handing back our journals.
    When he gives me mine,
    he holds it a second longer,
    and says, “Very good, Miss Oliver.”
    I open it
    and flip through the pages.
    Mr. Pease wrote things like
Very good
    and
Very observant
    and
Really
?
    And he marked spelling mistakes.
    I skip past the pages
    where I know I’ve said things
    that weren’t kind or respectful
    about other people.
    But when I get to the last page,
    I see a big, red A+
    and next to that:
    I enjoyed reading this very much
    and
I do know you better.
    Please keep writing poetry—
    you have a
gift
.
    I’m glad it has helped Mr. Pease know me.
    But even better,
    it has helped me know myself.

Summer

1969

The Question
    Papa’s last class ended today,
    and college is over for the year, too.
    We’re eating supper on the picnic table in the backyard
    because the air is warm and soft
    as the sky turns colors.
    The quarter moon is a shell on the sunset’s shore.
    Papa puts down his fork
    and leans his elbows on the table.
    I slap a mosquito on my arm
    and wait for him to talk.
    â€œWe have a decision to make,” he says.
    â€œI’ve been here for two semesters,
    and you and Mama have been here almost six months.
    If it’s not working out for you, we can leave.
    Someone offered me another teaching position today, in Texas.”
    â€œDoes that mean we’ll have to move