Like The Night
Hannah Vergult
S
oft water falling from a rusty showerhead tried to penetrate thick
hair. Violet stood still, her neck bent backwards with eyes closed.
She didn’t want to look down. The water pressure was so limp, it always
took nine “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Stars” for all the shampoo to trail
down her back and slurp down the drain.
Violet needed to memorize the poem. Everyone had to recite one
tomorrow in class.
“Select a poem that speaks to your soul,” Ms. Harris told them.
She gave a list of thirty poem titles to a group of disinterested students. Ms. Harris’ hair was frizzy that day and she wore an ugly floral
print dress.
“No one can do the same poem though,” she qualified.
Violet wondered what would happen if the poem that “spoke to her
soul” was taken by someone else. She didn’t recognize any titles on the
list. She got last pick anyway.
She didn’t want to remember.
The water formed in beads on her shoulders and raced down her
arms and fingertips. She breathed in steam.
“She walked in beauty like the night of countless climes and cloudy
nights,” she murmured. She spoke softly so as not to wake her parents
downstairs.
It didn’t sound right to her.
“She walks in beauty like the night . . .”
Violet felt like her teeth were screaming, but the words wouldn’t fall
out of her lips. She couldn’t remember.
“She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry
skies.”
That was it. What was the next line? Something about her eyes or
hair. Perhaps Lord Byron was just a fancy show off trying to get in some
girl’s pants. Wouldn’t that be typical?
79