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  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Daniels Taylor, Annette

  Title: Dreams on fire / Annette Daniels Taylor.

  Description: New York : West 44, 2019. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382479 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382486 (library bound) | ISBN 9781538383247 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English. | English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS586.3 D743 2019 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23

  First Edition

  Published in 2019 by Enslow Publishing LLC 101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240 New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2019 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney Designer: Seth Hughes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.

  To the children and teens residing inside the Erie County Youth Detention Center. Write, dance, sing, and create out of there...

  For Bessie and Shanequa Daniels

  Five-Year Nightmare

  I am Shanequa Oni Stephens. Michael is my father. My father is my dad. I love my daddy Michael, no matter what Grandma says. Daddy loves his little girls. That’s what our daddy says. But our daddy made a big mistake. One of the biggest, I think, dads can make.

  The Deed

  went down five years ago. LaKecia was seven. I was ten. Daddy shot and killed a man. Here’s the story I was told. Daddy dreamed of being a great piano-playing man. Writing songs our mama, Lisa, would sing when she headed the True Love band.

  Home Filled with Sounds of Music

  Every day, every night. Daddy wrote love songs. Mama would sing them just right. Every rehearsal she’d sing romantic melodies of how perfect love could be. One night inside Pandora’s Box, a drunk put his hand on Mama. Daddy kicked him out. The band laughed. Some drinks were drunk. Rehearsal began again. The door opened. That man came back, looking through bloodshot eyes. Threatening Daddy with his gun. Threatening Daddy to end his life. Folks dove. To the floor they fled. A practiced safety routine. That man didn’t know…

  Daddy Carried a Gun

  That’s why that man is dead. Lawyer: Self-defense! District Attorney: Concealed weapon. Murder, second degree! Daddy: Pick up your heads! Grandma: Pray up to the begotten Son. Mama: Hurting, need to forget… Daddy in prison. Judge gave 25 years. Good behavior lessens time, not Mama’s tears.

  Daddy’s Time

  made Mama sick. The sickest moms could be. Mama wakes mid-morning, tired sad depressed, face unwashed, hair matted & messed. Doctor’s medicine has no more refills. In the bedroom, Mama smokes her own medicine. Mama can’t make breakfast. Mama can’t get dressed. Mama turns on TV. Mama goes to bed

  We Are Kitchen Food Hunters

  Empty refrigerator lights show pantry cupboards filled with dust and air. Mama dresses up. Lipstick, high-heeled boots, braving the big-bad world. I’ll be right back! That’s what Mama says. Mama walks out the front door. She winks, blows us a kiss.

  Don’t Remember

  whether we caught the kiss or not. We both fell asleep waiting. Garbage truck wake-up alarm tells us we’re still home alone. Next morning, Grandma’s key unlocks our door. School called. Dropped a dime to Social Services! Court took Mama’s parent rights away. Grandma is named guardian until our parents satisfy the state.

  Bidwell Academy for Girls Admission

  Prompt: What’s Your Dream? I dream watching stars burn. I dream blazing truth. My dreams are singed, charred, scorched, and seared. Fifty-cent plastic lighters littering streets fade hope’s pathway. But I dream eyes open, fingers on keyboards, finding chords, dreaming melodies. Finding words. I dream goals, gleaming glittering glowing. Lighting moments. I dream spirit building, souls lifting, hopes thunder. With pens, with pencils, I’m writing my dreams on fire.

  Bedtime Stories

  LaKecia and I each repeat grades on account of school we missed. Grandma says we should read to her. Whatever, don’t matter, as long as we’re reading. We say, Grandma, read to us. She’ll hmph, make a fuss. Y’all children, I’m adult! Folks say, You and LaKecia so smart! Yeah, we read a lot!

  LaKecia Looks

  just like Mama. Pretty, thin, high cheeks, thick lips, light butterscotch brown, like they island born. I’m just like Daddy. Plain, thick, big eyes, broad shoulders, cocoa-colored brown. Mainland born. Def looking sisterly when side by side together, but stupid folks say stuff like, What happened to Shanequa? LaKecia pretty. You must be smart! Thinking I’m ugly ain’t permission to be mean.

  Saturdays Are For

  house cleaning, ceiling to floor. Gotta get grime from crusty corner crevices. Last little lady. Lazy late LaKecia. I’m up after Kirk Franklin shout-sings sermons through the speakers. Saturday is pre-Sunday: clean home, body, & mind. Surrounding space with singing sounds. Harmony greets Grandma with smiles!

  I Am Waffle Maker

  since our daddy’s state sentenced separation. His waffles were better. Haven’t gotten his “just right-ness” yet. More practice figures it out, Grandma says. Saturday mornings, using Dad’s old waffle iron. Breakfast test success— or error. Afterwards, we bleach, dust, soak, wash, lavender Pine-Sol the entire apartment.

  Hair-Do Time!

  Grandma says, “Ratchet-ness” a sin. She says, Not letting y’all look tore up in church tomorrow! She fixes our heads up just right. This week, designer butterfly cornrows flutter atop our decorated heads! Grandma should’ve went to beauty school. Got certified, licensed, legal. She studies up, perfecting new hairstyle skills. Watching YouTube lessons on her phone. Thursday nights, some Fridays, every Saturday afternoon, “Cora’s Kitchen Salon” full up with neighborhood-discount wannabe-looking-like reality show divas! Church ladies, girls I know, women who say, Used to know your mama... And others who say, Baby, how your daddy doing? We are praying for him... Just making small talk. Some folks don’t know how to say nothing when they get a curl and press, extensions, braids, or weaves.

  Driving Dreams

  Grandma’s saving for a car. Got half already. Making an investment, she says. Soon, she gonna drive to work. Drive to the supermarket. Drive to the doctor office. Drive to church. Drive to the laundromat. Drive to school. Drive to the art museum. Drive to the zoo. Drive to pick apples at a farm. Drive to the river to see the boats! Maybe drive to visit Daddy if she lets us. Grandma say, I don’t visit inside jails. Never have, never will. Your daddy knew that ever since he was little! We ain’t seen Daddy in four years.

  Pastors Blessing

  Pastor Gorham tells congregation, Pray for our own Shanequa Stephens. Lord blessing her gifts with opportunity! He takes up offering for me. Gotta gift card for new clothes. School supplies, filled bookbag. Says, Church, we don’t want her feeling less than a child of God when she over there, do we?

  I’m Stranger

  Grandma says, Pastor’s praying, and your grades, get you into Bidwell Academy for Girls. Do your job and don’t spoil it. I say, Yes, Grandma. She says, Mind yourself. Folks still folks. They like being with they own. Strangers be strange to them. Knowing I’m the stranger I always feel strange.

  First Day

  New gift card clothes! Promise to self: hide business, hold dreams. Knees covered, code of dress. Be on fleek and look your best. Their phones smartest, newest, fres
hest. Hide that stupid candy-bar phone mess. Don’t look charity-like, extra. First school day everybody sees the darkest girl. Watch and study. Keep fresh and clean.

  Dreaming in My City

  Took the bus, then train. To get to Bidwell Academy for Girls. Tree-lined streets, air smells sweet. Women walk cute doggies, wearing North Face and Nikes. Cute pizza parlors. Cute dress stores. Cute coffee shops. Cute-looking street. Cute bookstores, reflecting me. Already out of place in my city

  Fairytale School

  The most beautiful place ever. Like movies. Like fairytales. Like make-believe dreams. Bidwell Academy for Girls, the most beautiful place ever. I’m dreaming of carved oak doors. Shiny marble floors. Real art by real artists, not students. Grand fireplace in the library. Fancy glass ceiling lamps dance reflections across my face.

  Shanequa Defined

  Mrs. Miller: Shay-nee-Kwa Oh-Neye Stee-fans? Shanequa: Sha-Nee-Kwa Oh-Nee Stee-fans. Mrs. Miller: That’s an interesting name. Ashley: Yeah, interesting. (snicker, snicker) Mrs. Miller: Ashley, would you like to address the entire class? Ashley: I was just saying how pretty Shanequa’s name is. Does it mean something? Shanequa: Yeah...

  Shanequa Means

  God is gracious. Oni means big sister in Korean and god of disaster in Japanese. Ashley: Are you a big sister or a disaster? I guess, in truth, I am both.

  Trauma Dreams

  Sometimes at night, dreams are like, empty. When all’s quiet, dreaming is like, being. Sometimes at night, dreams are like, creepers hiding in mirrors. Dreams are like, dark places. Re-memor-ing terrors. Sometimes at night, big burnt-eyed zombies chase me in mirrors of fire, in reflections, like being in dreams.

  LaKecias Trauma Dreams

  LaKecia dreams of dark voices. Heavy with trouble. Dark surprises. Ears open before eyes. Sounds heard before sights seen. LaKecia sounds alarms. I am holding LaKecia. Closely shielding fears while swimming through trauma tears. Ears ring brightly, my eyes stuck shut, forced open by LaKecia dreaming of sorrow knocking on our front door, blanketing Mama’s cries. Dreams are monsters. Daddy on the floor. Four policemen. Knees in his back. Curious ogres, before ears alert sound, before sight awakens memory.

  Oni Bedside Manner

  I’m on lifeguard sister duty. Got my orders— LaKecia’s bedside. Her small voice shaking, we rock back to sleep. The same dream. The same night-terror, rerun, guns pointing. Silver handcuffs on Daddy’s wrists. Nightmare reruns. LaKecia crying, re-running to Daddy. Policemen push her. LaKecia falls. I’m frozen. Mama in between, cradles LaKecia, cussing police.

  Daddy Doesn’t Argue

  Daddy doesn’t fight. Police beat him anyway. Mama in handcuffs. Police say my mama is dangerous. Gonna hurt somebody! Threaten to arrest her. They say: For your own good! Police threaten to take us. Threaten [C]hild [P]rotective [S]ervices. Mama yells, Call Grandma! Grabbing LaKecia, I run to Mama and Daddy’s room. I lock the door, call Grandma. Tell her get here, police arresting Daddy, Mama in handcuffs. Tell her we real, real scared.

  Miss Mary

  brought Aaliyah over, wants some crochet extensions. Aaliyah says, That’s Shanequa’s thing, not looking at Grandma. Your braids don’t pull tight. Her basketball’s an extension of her arm. Steady ball dribbling, hollow rhythmic beat.

  Mad Respect

  Grandma says, Aaliyah, stop bouncing. Ain’t the playground! Aaliyah polite, all, Yes, ma’am. You can front in the streets, but Grandma Cora demands mad respect from young folks. Polite attitude gets you hair credit when money’s funny. Best know how to speak.

  Aaliyah Got Mad Tall

  She’s point guard on East basketball team. Miss Mary says, If she fails English and math, I’m taking that ball and the team’s in the past! We were besties in elementary school, but in middle, she found a different crew after her dad got snatched by a bullet. She stopped talking some, too. Miss Mary ask, Shanequa, you going to that bougie school? Help Aaliyah. I’ll pay you to!

  Grandma Gives the Look

  I ain’t got no choice. Yes, Miss Mary. I say, What day’s good, Aaliyah? I can do whenever after 4:00. Wanna meet at the Center when I pick up LaKecia? Yeah, a’ight? Monday and Wednesday? Let’s meet at 4:30. A’ight, that’s bet.

  Aaliyah’s Late

  Finish homework, I wait. Eat chicken fingers and fries with LaKecia. Hear a gym basketball game. Call out Aaliyah’s name. She stops. Oh snap! My bad, Shanequa. I forgot. Word. Look like you was ducking me? Look, just call this a wrap, you feel me? Can’t lie to Miss Mary. Say nothin’, then. The team’ll cut you. No nevermind, already a baller. Pulling out cash, Aaliyah hands me a twenty. That cover your tutor fee?

  Miss Precious Writes Poetry

  Miss Precious a poet. Miss Precious the only black teacher. Miss Precious asks for focus. She’s a visiting artist. Writing poems every day. Her job’s to inspire young writers, to create stories on the page. Her skin is dark like coffee, with a splash of cream swirlin’. Eyes big and round like Grandad’s, before cancer got him. She reads us a poem, about claiming who you are. Challenge your outer vision, propel your inner star. Gives us an assignment, a poem telling who we are. I’m afraid to be truthful. Won’t reveal private scars.

  Won’t reveal private scars.

  I Am by Shanequa O. Stephens

  I am the oldest daughter, an Oni. I wonder how to walk through fire. I hear wind whispering under streetlamps. I see secrets shaking temptation’s hands. I want today to divorce history. I am the oldest daughter, an Oni. I play pretend with LaKecia. I touch photos of our mother. I cry remembering she’s gone. I worry if LaKecia sleeps enough. I am the oldest daughter, an Oni. I feel handcuffs of responsibility. I understand roles change. I need to breathe childhood dreams. I say Mama still exists. I am the oldest daughter, an Oni.

  Funny How Folks Believe

  in death. Writing lies in poems don’t feel like real lying. I never said Mama’s dead. They thought it because the words I read. Never said my mama died, just said she wasn’t here. It’s better folks believe she passed away instead of knowing she’s a junk-head.

  Miss Precious Talks After Class

  Says, I appreciate your poem. Says, I’m sorry about your mother. Asks about my dad. I shrug my shoulders, look down at the floor. Taste lies growing in my mouth. He gone… I get the faraway look. Get teary-eyed on account of me lying.

  Round My Way

  Miss Precious, hand on my shoulder, says, It’s okay. I understand. But she don’t. Because I’m lying. She grew up round my way. Buffalo, East Side, Grider & Delavan streets, lived in foster homes. Quoting Drake, Started from the bottom, now we’re here. She’s cool. I’m a liar.

  A Visiting Artist

  is not a regular classroom teacher. Miss Precious asks do I have computer, internet. Bidwell Academy gives everyone a laptop. I don’t say I do my homework at the community center where LaKecia has after-school care. We can’t afford wi-fi. Miss Precious says I’m gifted. Says, Keep on writing. Email new poems. We can talk. Her parents are not dead. Orphan is sometimes defined by feelings. Her dad disappeared. She’s a jail-born baby. County took her away from her mom. Says, Nobody wanted a sickly crack-baby. Hoping I’ll reach out, she says, I’m here for you. If I need. If I want.

  Ashley

  sits with me at lunch. Says her mother died too. Driving in a snowstorm. Black ice, whiteout. I get your poem. I get feeling alone. You are so lucky you have a sister, and you’re not all alone. She’s a residential student. That means she lives at Bidwell Academy. Boarding school. Says, My dad travels a lot for work. Been months since I’ve seen him, even during summer break. Wanna hang out later?

  Showed Grandma

  the poem I wrote for Miss Precious. She says, That’s nice, baby. Hang it on the refrigerator. That’s all she ever says. Dad would OOH and AAH over everything we did. He would take out the camera on his phone, record an after-school performance. He would post and share.

  Grandma Brags

  to all her Saturday clients about her smart, talente
d grands. But then she tells me cutting carrots more important than making poetic art! Shanequa, start the rice. Read your story at dinner. Grandma only reads her phone, the Bible, and bills.

  LaKecia Liked

  hearing her name in the poem. Grandma didn’t like how it sounded like Mama’s dead. Even though I don’t like one bit how she let the devil rule her world over being a good mother, I don’t approve of writing stories like she dead. It’s as good as lying.

  Never Said She Was Dead, Grandma!

  No, but it sounds like that what you saying. What your teacher say about that? She liked it. Said I have a gift. Hmm. I think so too, but you also got a responsibility to do. Say what’s true, right? It’s your duty to do well no matter what. I’m counting on you. Ignore distractions for LaKecia and yourself. Graduate! A high school diploma— you be the first! Mama got a diploma. She throws away gifts. Be first in my family. Believe you’re worthy, girl. You ain’t have to lie to be liked!