Jamail Center for Legal Research
Tarlton Law Library

Taking Stock

last year, the lebanese 
palm reader pictured domestic
peace, a single union, in our separate, 
unscarred hands.  now, godless 
and short on faith, i recall the howl 
of sirens four years previous, when our packed
u?haul accelerated downhill 
from a gas station in crook county, 
wyoming.  neither of us was sure 
about moving cross?country but you were 
less sure than i.  when the two cops 
arrested you for a suspended license 
i managed not to scream.

we had to get to san francisco 
for your interview, so i forced an absurd smile 
when the lead cop said, we don't take
triple A bail bonds, travelers checks 
or credit cards.  today's Saturday.  if she can't 
post bail, we'll haul you 200 miles 
to sundance and let them sort it out on Monday 

at the corner store, in line for the cashier, 
i remembered how the clerks in mansfield, 
massachusetts would stare 
or ignore me, the crazy 
woman's daughter.  for a self left 
to the goodwill of strangers, 
i felt a welling of disdain. 
still, i sucked that dusty air 
down to my diaphragm and said 
my husband's in jail-will you cash these in?

Small Town Vignettes

if i try to go back there
my soul resists
but i can tell you this:
girls in shorts as spring nears summer
trying to showoff their legs and thighs
because what else is there?
in school the desks said things like 
i blew eddy and he was 12 inches
yum yum yum yum. 

or i could tell you about churches:
the little brown one that my mother 
got kicked out of for talking badly 
of a fellow parishioner.
she thought the other's trained hymnsinging 
overdramatic with its trills and tras

she was arrested twice on the steps 
and then convicted 
once for trying to get in.  it didn't have 
beautiful stained glass like the white 
congregational perched on the common

and the minister was from texas not one 
of the beloved local boys everyone remembers 
shoveling driveways or winning fieldgoals 
on thanksgiving.  and it wasn't st. mary's
that you had to be popular to go to
but it made the news and my fifth grade 
year miserable. 

or i could tell you about my paper route 
in seventh grade-the gang of boys that said die 
dog bitch, playing some kind of ball game 
in the street.  i wondered coldly if they would kill 
or rape me for the endless minutes that one of them 
stood in front of me.  but the texture couldn't be wrought 

without the insinuating dss woman:  Your mother 
never answered the door but we could hear 
footsteps inside and i wondered how 
that was a crime but in her language- 

in front of a judge- 
it meant hiding something hiding something,
or the hum of airplanes from the municipal 
airport that continuously permeated 
our house.  they didn't carry unobtainable 
dreams like commercial jets
of places and distances.  they were flown 
by private people mostly probably 
born with money and so i never dreamed 
of being in one bound for some other place 
but still their hum and buzz are the sound 
of home however little sought after 
that sometimes is

underfoot

at one point along the river,
the grass was so lush i was afraid 
to step there, as if some living, breathing 
thing hidden underneath 
caused that springiness, but i stepped 
and stepped again, marveling.

not far from Eugene, Oregon, can i say this?
an unmarried middle-aged man made himself 
a friend to the neighborhood.  he restored 
cars on property he rented and hired 
out-of-work fathers to help him.  summer 
nights, on couches and car furniture 
outside his trailer, joints passed freely. 
hot days, he lined a truck bed with plastic 
to make a pool for children to play in.  little 

by little, girls and boys loved him.  one laughing 
six year-old slid naked on a bedspread only to imagine
its pompoms as the frills of his mustache. 
she said she played with him repeatedly alone 
in his trailer, while, just outside, her mother 
watched her older brother.  a four-year-old 
taking a bath explained how he licked 
her pee pee as mommy raced home 
to record the lion king.  at trial, 
defense counsel tried to confine the girls' families 
to the chalk marks of alcohol, pot, and poverty.

courtroom recess

my mind drifting in and out
of love      husband problems
a long unmet need for sleep
when the clink-clang-ing 
rouses me

at first i think 
of jacob marley
paying for his greedy sins 
in some impoverished afterlife,

remember where i am 
in time to anticipate
three Indians
drudging in
shackled by the wrists and ankles
paying for whose sins?

touring juvenile hall as part of the court of appeals

in the substance abuse cottage, the two youths
who told the story of that place had earned 
the right to wear their own clothes by accumulating
good conduct points.  school, computers,
cafeteria food-sometimes good, sometimes bad, 
like anywhere-were among the topics on the agenda. 
afterward, the superintendent explained how meals 
really improved morale and so they worked 
hard at them.  as for outdoor activity,
that was up to security, but at least everybody
walked to school every day, single file.

the violent offender cottage was a bit different.
classes were held inside the building; all the residents
studied at their own levels but attended together. 
one of the youths explained that they weren't allowed
internet access.  he also tapped his head, then 
told us with a prideful smile:  there are some real
amazing minds here.  on the way out to the
courtyard where residents could sometimes
exercise, we passed one of the school shooters.
sitting at a library table talking with a mentor,
he was learning something that would be of use 
perhaps in another life.  outside, the superintendent 
outlined the impact of mandatory minimum
sentences:  juvenile hall has become a prep school
for prison.  our emphasis on communication 
will disserve them. 

during the tour, i was fraught with conflict
about how much to look, especially at the kids
in standard-issue sweats who were simply 
going through the motions.  it felt like 
a kind of betrayal:  to want to look deeply
into a life and never have to live it

Ann Tweedy completed her undergraduate work at Bryn Mawr College and received her law degree from UC Berkeley School of Law (Boalt Hall). Her poetry has been published in Clackamas Literary Review, Berkeley Poetry Review, The Drag King Anthology, The Pedestal Magazine, The Awakenings Review, and other journals and magazines. Tweedy lives north of Seattle, Washington, along the Skagit River, where she works as a lawyer for an Indian tribe.
"Small Town Vignetts" was previous published in PUSH? Magazine; "Taking Stock" appeared previously in Clackamas Literary Review.