The Screaming Poet

I first met her in the bathroom.

She was dressed in a radiant ultramarine blue ensemble and was applying more makeup than was necessary to her cherubic face.

I washed my hands and complimented her on the beauty of her color choice.

She continued to shade in her eyelids to make them match her blouse.

She beamed at me the smile of a girl who was not accustomed to receiving complements from strangers.

Possibly not from those familiar with her either.

She was sweet.

I had no idea who she was.

We continued to chat as I dried my hands and she painted on a thin coat of confidence.

In my mind I hoped she was not there on a date and if she was, I hoped he would be kind to her.

She seemed delicate.

As I sat at my table dining with friends, I noticed her again.

She was with a group.

Mixed peers and what looked like might be her parents.

I hoped that her mother was being nice to her and minding her opinions.

I imagine her mother harping on her every chew. Her every cut into her meal. Was it too big? Too small? Was she chewing properly?

I have no idea why I thought those things.

I did not have that type of mother.

She looked like she did.

I wanted to hug her.

Maybe it was the glass of Shiraz.

We finished our meal and headed into the reading room.

The poetry was about to begin.

He announces the first poet.

Speaks of her newly published book called "Awe".

In the back of the room I see her again.

She looks excited.

Is she a fan of this "Awe" poet Dorothea Lasky?

Ourselves were there to hear Jane Ellen Ibur.

We had not heard of this Lasky woman.

She is giggling like a tween at a Jonas Brothers sighting as he gushes about the Lasky woman.

She is holding a copy of "Awe".

Raquel and I sip our Shiraz and watch this woman-child get excited about the unknown poet.

We make the Gweneth-Paltrow-scrunchie-face-of-indifference at each other, shrug and sip some more Shiraz.

We had no idea how much we would need more wine to successfully survive the next 8 minutes.

He finishes the introduction and the little blue cherub makes her way to the front.

"Ohhhhhhhh....!"

Yes. Now that makes much more sense.

She starts speaking in that same sweet voice I encountered in the ladies' room.

Then she begins her reading.

It is called "Diabetic Coma".

She screams it.

The entire thing.

Like a six year old in a school production.

She screams.

And not just for that poem.

For all of the poems.

Wine is not served with screaming.

Jack Daniels is served with screaming.

I try to get centered.

It is possible that she is fantastic, but she is so loud that I cannot hear what she says.

I center my hand to my brow and practice breathing and willing my ears to fill with glorious wax.

I start giggling like a child in church.

The awful kind that is uncontrollable because it is so very wrong.

I am hoping that her poems are humorous so that my obnoxiousness can masquerade as sheer appreciation for her genius.

Raquel knows better and it is contagious.

I know she wants to pinch me.

My eyes are wide.

My mouth falls slightly agape.

Raquel and I look at each other.

Raquel's mother and I look at each other.

Raquel and her mom look at each other.

Raquel looks at her aunt.

Her aunt looks at me.

My lips disappear.

I whisper to Raquel, "But I swear she was normal in the bathroom!"

She finishes reading and our ears are assaulted with the beautiful sound of silence.

We are indeed in awe.

The end.

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*Note: As a side note, I must admit that I was so curious about this girl and so convinced that she is one of the most misunderstood woman-child poets in existence, that I sought to read her poems in the luxury of silence.

They really are quite good.

She is incredibly human and that comes through in her words. She really just needs some mild polish in the performance category, and she may take the poetry world by storm.

Check out some of her work here: Dorothea Lasky