The Red Pencil Read online

To draw.

  First, I jab at the sand’s surface.

  I plunge my twig’s point,

  splitting open warm, brown powder,

  making it obey.

  Then I pull back

  in a single quick-strike

  that forms an arc,

  sloping long.

  I like this line.

  I draw a second one

  to mirror the first.

  These side-by-side swerves

  reveal a bird,

  wings wide.

  Soaring

  from my twig’s tip.

  Created with my own hands.

  Drawing, drawing

  in the sand.

  HAND, TWIG, SPARROW

  When I draw, it’s not me doing it.

  It’s my hand.

  And my twig.

  And my sparrow.

  My hand

  and my twig

  and my sparrow

  make the lines.

  My hand

  and my twig

  and my sparrow

  do the dance

  on the sand.

  I never know

  what my hand

  and my twig

  and my sparrow

  will create.

  My hand

  holds my twig.

  But my twig goes

  on its own.

  My sparrow—that’s what’s inside me:

  flight.

  THE JANJAWEED

  My mother doesn’t want me to go to school,

  yet I must endure

  today’s lesson from Muma

  about something called the Janjaweed.

  I’ve heard grown-ups speak of this,

  but only with other grown-ups.

  Now Muma is speaking to me.

  Quietly.

  Clearly.

  She watches my eyes

  to make sure I’m paying attention.

  Muma tells me

  the Janjaweed

  have formed as the result

  of this war Dando has tried to explain.

  “The Janjaweed are bad people,” Muma says.

  I know what bad people means,

  but Muma soon turns this

  into a difficult lesson.

  Like my father making no sense

  of war,

  my mother uses strange words

  to help me understand.

  These words do no good

  in teaching me:

  Armed

  Militia

  Bandits

  Renegades

  Muma says Janjaweed

  means

  “devils on horseback.”

  I try to pay attention,

  but I’m struggling.

  FRIGHT

  I work hard

  to find meaning

  in what sounds like

  a tale for

  telling at night,

  when we want to scare each other.

  I listen,

  only out of respect

  for Muma,

  and because,

  when my strong mother speaks

  of the Janjaweed,

  her whole face fills with fright.

  I fidget.

  I want this lesson over.

  Muma collects both my hands in hers.

  She holds firm.

  “Amira, look at me,” she insists.

  I make myself stay with her gaze.

  My mother says,

  “The Janjaweed attack without warning.

  If ever they come—run.”

  POSSIBILITIES

  Dando and I have a favorite game called

  What Else Is Possible?

  The only real rule for our game

  is that answers to the question

  What else is possible?

  can only be good.

  Dando goes first.

  “If you wake to find your sandals gone, do you worry?”

  Dando answers his own question.

  This is how the game works.

  He says,

  “Worrying, that is a waste of time.

  Better to ask, ‘What else is possible?’ ”

  Dando peels off his own sandal, waves it.

  He insists, “Your sandals may not be gone at all,

  only missing, while a generous hand mends

  their worn edges.”

  Now it’s my turn.

  “If two days pass, then five, then seven,

  and still no sandals, do you worry?”

  I shake my head fast, ready to answer.

  I tell Dando,

  “It could be those generous mending hands

  have stitched you a whole new pair of sandals.”

  “Made of gold!” Dando adds.

  Dando waves both his sandals.

  I wave my sandals, too,

  one right, one left.

  “Lift them high,” Dando says. “High!

  They are new, and glistening, our sandals.”

  What Else Is Possible?

  is a game about looking at things

  in shiny ways.

  LINES

  I never know

  where my drawings will go.

  My twig tells me.

  My twig leads.

  I follow

  by watching my twig

  decide.

  I’m only the holder

  of the instrument that makes

  picture-music

  on our parched land.

  My twig takes over.

  The up-and-down lines

  grow longer.

  Are those camel legs?

  The body of a tree?

  Muma’s arms stretched,

  praising?

  I add a top to the lines.

  Could this be

  our square-shaped

  home?

  Maybe it’s the lane

  where our clay house sits?

  “Twig,” I say,

  “show me.”

  That’s the mystery,

  the happy surprise,

  of turning the sand’s surface

  into something new

  to view.

  AGREEING

  Dando and Old Anwar agree

  on me.

  I am raking plop.

  I will do anything to stall this chore.

  So I do something I should not do.

  I pretend to be working hard so I can

  listen.

  Behind the stall fence,

  seeing through its slats.

  A good view.

  It’s not right to listen

  when my ears haven’t been invited.

  But my ears can’t help it.

  They’re doing what ears are meant to do.

  Old Anwar and Dando parcel hay,

  gather grain.

  Old Anwar says, “Amira is a special child.”

  “You are right,” says Dando.

  “My daughter has a glint about her.”

  Old Anwar tosses corn pellets.

  Our chickens flock,

  collect,

  peck,

  take.

  “Amira gets her glimmer from you,”

  Old Anwar says.

  To hear better, I stop raking.

  Our chickens, are they listening, too?

  Old Anwar asks Dando,

  “Do you remember your boyhood?

  You were filled with such curiosity.

  A story-lover.”

  “I do remember,” Dando says.

  Old Anwar asks,

  “Do you recall who taught you to read?”

  Dando bows,

  showing Old Anwar his respect.

  “I was Amira’s age.”

  Old Anwar chuckles.

  “You were a boy always searching.”

  Dando’s eyes soften,

  finding joy in good memories.

  SEEING THE SAME SUN

  My rake’s fingers scrape dirt,

  giv
ing off the sound of hard work.

  Old Anwar says,

  “There is something else Amira gets from you—

  farm sense.”

  Dando agrees.

  “That child is good with sheep and wheat.

  I believe she could

  have a gift for learning letters.”

  I can’t even pretend to work now.

  My ears are eager to do their job.

  I rock my rake’s handle,

  but it’s hardly moving.

  “Teach Amira to read,” Old Anwar says.

  My raking has stopped.

  I do not want to miss a word.

  My cow plop pile has begun to call flies

  to its rising fumes.

  They’re happy to play among the moist,

  lingering mounds.

  Dando sets his hands

  at Old Anwar’s back,

  gives a playful tug.

  “Old Anwar,

  you and I see the same sun on the horizon.

  It would bring me such pleasure

  to teach Amira to read,

  but I cannot convince my wife of this.”

  Old Anwar places his hand

  at my father’s waist,

  echoing the gesture.

  He says,

  “Your girl’s glint should be allowed to

  shine even brighter.”

  My father nods,

  agreeing.

  Old Anwar and Dando,

  seeing the same sun.

  BROKEN-BOTTLE DOLLY

  Leila has found a cracked plastic bottle,

  an abandoned shell.

  The bottle’s clear body is packed with dirt,

  thick with goz,

  filled with brown,

  right up to its neck.

  A swatch of green makes this baby doll’s dress.

  Leila loves her, even with no head.

  Even with no arms or legs.

  Even with the tiny, jagged crack at her bottom,

  leaking grains of goz.

  Soon that dirt-filled dolly has a name.

  Leila proclaims her toy’s birth.

  Smiles at the sight.

  She invents silly wispy voices

  that bring her baby to life.

  “Sweet little Salma.”

  Leila murmurs and sighs at the newborn

  nestled in her stumpy arms.

  TOY BATTLES

  “I found it first!” shouts Gamal.

  Leila squeals, “No, mine!”

  Gamal and Leila each yank

  to claim the cracked,

  plastic,

  left-for-dead bottle.

  Leila cries, “My child, my baby.”

  “Mine!” claims Gamal.

  He pulls loose the green sheath dress.

  Snatches the bottle from Leila’s hungry hands,

  runs off fast.

  Gamal won’t look behind him, at us.

  He settles on a patch of sand

  far enough from Leila so that she can’t chase him

  on her turned-in feet.

  He’s escaped,

  but is close enough to taunt Leila.

  Vrrraahhoooom comes from someplace deep

  in this greedy boy

  as he rams baby Salma on her side.

  Vrrraaaahhoooms that broken bottle

  back and forth on the sand.

  He sneers.

  “This is no baby doll! It’s my jeep!”

  EYES

  Ever since Dando told me

  of war,

  and Muma, of the Janjaweed,

  I’ve noticed

  a strange shadow

  in people’s eyes.

  This dim, shapeless thing

  has been lurking.

  This shaded expression

  that has no name

  has settled itself

  in glances and unspoken foreboding.

  I look closer,

  trying to know

  what is in

  the eyes of my village neighbors,

  and of Dando and Muma.

  It’s something

  other

  than concern about the hiding moon.

  In time, I see.

  Eyes tell

  what is inside.

  Muma and Dando,

  they speak,

  they work,

  they move about each day

  with their regular

  here-and-there.

  But their eyes say

  something is not regular.

  Their eyes confess fright,

  as if every breeze,

  every shadow,

  every leaf

  whispers a warning.

  I look and look

  so deep

  into

  the odd,

  scared,

  uneasy

  that has settled in so many eyes.

  When I dare to cut a stare,

  then hold the gaze

  of a grown-up,

  my own eyes ask,

  Why?

  DOTS

  Twig, you are lazy today.

  All you do is poke.

  Dot.

  Dot.

  Tiny messes on the sand’s surface.

  Dot.

  Dot.

  Dot… dot… dot…

  There is so much wind today.

  That is good.

  It can sweep away these nothing-dots.

  Good-bye, lazy twig-pokes!

  Lots of dots

  blow down

  to just a few.

  But, aakh—then I see

  the possibilities

  in dots.

  Wait, wind! Please stop!

  You are lifting away

  what could have been:

  Bird footprints.

  A spray of stars.

  Eyes peeking out from a wall of goz.

  Split beans, spilled.

  So many wonders arise from

  Dot.

  Dot.

  Dot.

  I wish I’d seen them sooner.

  WAKING, WALKING, WATER

  We rise

  before the sun

  pierces the night.

  Before dawn has a chance

  to press

  on our heads,

  baking us

  with unrelenting heat.

  Muma rouses me,

  sounding as crisp as wind.

  “Amira, come.”

  Does my mother ever sleep?

  We wake

  to walk,

  many miles there,

  many back.

  Taking so long, this journey.

  Slowly

  we go

  for water.

  Our plastic jugs are empty on our way

  to the river’s gate.

  But, aakh, the return.

  Aakh, the ache

  in our backs,

  through our legs.

  The riverbed fills our empty, wanting vessels

  with the wet,

  sloshing promise of water.

  Weighing heavily,

  pulling our pails

  down,

  down,

  down,

  bending branches into arcs

  that make

  the ache

  stay

  all day.

  FAMILY PICTURES

  Muma:

  strong face,

  beautiful,

  square.

  Her toob

  a column of twig-strokes

  I strike in the sand:

  sweesh-swoosh!

  sweesh-swoosh!

  Spilling from all sides

  of her stands-so-proud body,

  covering every part of my mother.

  Except for her wide, loving eyes.

  Except for her wide-fingered hands.

  Except for her wide, flat feet.

  Two stretched shapes

  peeking out from the twig-strokes that ma
ke

  sweesh-swoosh.

  Dando:

  body,

  a box.

  Face,

  so oval.

  Stubbled chin,

  a triangle

  decorated,

  dot… dot…

  dot…

  to show hair

  trying to grow.

  Dando’s eyes,

  wells of wisdom.

  Dando,

  who sees what is possible in me.

  I craft his wise eyes by digging

  two more dot-dots,

  deep.

  Leila:

  all of her bowed.

  Legs,

  arms,

  neck,

  ears.

  Arcs,

  curves,

  half circles