Free The Lightning Dreamer by Margarita Engle

Tula
Books are door-shaped
portals
carrying me
across oceans
and centuries,
helping me feel
less alone.
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But my mother believes
that girls who read too much
are unladylike
and ugly,
so my father’s books are locked
in a clear glass cabinet. I gaze
at enticing covers
and mysterious titles,
but I am rarely permitted
to touch
the enchantment
of words.
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Poems.
Stories.
Plays.
All are forbidden.
Girls are not supposed to think,
but as soon as my eager mind
begins to race, free thoughts
rush in
to replace
the trapped ones.
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I imagine distant times
and faraway places.
Ghosts.
Vampires.
Ancient warriors.
Fantasy moves into
the tangled maze
of lonely confusion.
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Secretly, I open
an invisible book in my mind,
and I step
through its magical door-shape
into a universe
of dangerous villains
and breathtaking heroes.
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Many of the heroes are men
and boys, but some are girls
so tall
strong
and clever
that they rescue other children
from monsters.

Manuel
My big sister tells
bizarre fantasy tales,
acting them out in whispers
beneath a jungle of leaves
in the shady garden.
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Her stories of powerful giants
and terrifying beasts
turn the evening
into a forest
of secrets.
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I leave the garden feeling
as if I have traveled
to a distant land.
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If only our real lives
could be as heroic as her tales
of courageous giants
one hundred heads high.

Tula
I’ve trained my little brother
to be a brave smuggler of words.
He hides his schoolbooks
under my embroidery hoop
one
forbidden
volume
at a time
so that our frowning mother
and scolding stepfather
hardly ever grow
suspicious.
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When no one is looking,
I seize one of Manuel’s books
and flee to the garden,
where words
glitter
and glow
in starlight.

Tula
I am thirteen now, so close
to the age of forced marriage
that invented worlds
made of words
are my only
comfort.
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I try to explain my fear
of a loveless wedding
to Mamá, but her mind
is busy with greedy
visions . . .
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If only she could dream
of her own future
instead of mine.

Mamá
Thirteen! It is the age for dreams
of sparkling jewels and silken gowns
in elegant ballrooms . . .
not hideous fantasies
about ferocious beasts.
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Everyone knows that girls
who read and write too much
are unattractive. Men want
quiet females who listen,
not loud ones who offer
opinions.

Tula
Thirteen is the age for dreams
of changing the world
by freeing my own heart.
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Thirteen is a barefoot rider
on a naturally graceful horse,
with no fierce spurs, heavy saddle,
iron bit, or vicious reins
to control the mouth
and the mind.
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People assume that men
make all the rules, but sometimes
mothers are the ones who command
girls to be quiet
while they arrange
for us to be sold
like oxen
or mules.

Tula
I feel like a new person
when I play make-believe games
in the garden, inventing tales
of monsters and heroes.
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Mamá commands me to hush,
and my stepfather grumbles,
so I try to be quiet,
but silence feels
like an endless
echoing
hallway
of smooth
shiny mirrors
that reflect
my ragged
impatience.
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I end up growling and roaring
like a beast.

Mamá
Why does my stubborn daughter
bellow and howl each time I tell her
to stop being so loud
and so rude?
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I’m just doing my motherly
duty—why can’t she listen to a voice
of sensible reason?
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Doesn’t she see that her future
is my future, and little Manuel’s?
Without Tula’s help in achieving
a successful marriage for herself,
no one in this family will ever
possess the sheer power
of great wealth.

Tula
On lonely nights, I remember
my father, who allowed me to read
as much as I wanted.
While he was alive, I felt
like my brother’s equal. I felt human.
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I never had to challenge absurd rules
by smashing a glass bookcase,
just to steal a glance
at hidden pages.
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Now, when Mamá catches me
with a book in my hands and shards
of glass on my shoes, she sends me
to my silent room, where I spend
quiet hours