what she’d been through. She used to say
“Affection is a sign of weakness”
which totally baffled me because she could be
both affectionate and strong. I’d give anything
to understand all of the layers
of tragedy that forced
her shell to become so hard.
After Mom’s last supper, that homemade
mac and cheese,
relatives from beyond the grave came calling:
her parents, grandparents,
and Mom’s favorite dogs.
She greeted them with delight, chatted happily
as she drifted to sleep.
Hallucinations, the hospice nurse said,
but she wasn’t there
when the five never-borns arrived: tall and strong,
salt-and-pepper hair, ice-eyed like Daddy,
high cheekbones like Mom,
and I knew it was time to release our mother
so she could cross the river home
to where the rest of the family was waiting.
tangled
I have two bookcases
filled to spilling
with balls of yarn entwined
with dreams and schemes
for a life creative
enough to knit, stitch
all my prayers into sweaters
and socks and hats,
I have a faded plastic grocery bag
brimming with my most
favorite skeins,
audacious schemes.
Kin unpinned, my mother
was 100 percent wool, unprocessed
and itchy as hell, a hair shirt unraveled
then rerolled like razor wire
—carefully—
into a porcupine abristle
with resentment,
protecting her underbelly
resisting all attempts to untangle
her complications.
That’s the story I am dying
to knit together,
if I could only find
the pattern.
blood moon
I had my last period the month
before my mother died
but years later I still dream
about bleeding,
the alarming crotch trickle
racing to the toilet
berating myself
cuz I didn’t replace the emergency
tampon in my purse
In the dream
I pull down my pants
cursing the useless, translucent
toilet paper
but I stop
cuz it’s not blood,
not anymore
The only thing that flows from my womb
in that dream
and in this waking
is thick, dark ink
word-fertile and raw
ordinary damages
My father lived for five years after my mother died
nobody was more surprised about this than he
and we’d head to the gym, where I’d work out
while he sat on the bench, coffee in hand
charming the ladies
then we went to the diner for a delicious,
unhealthy breakfast, I’d read the paper,
he did the crossword puzzle in pen
and we talked
unrolling our family legacies
of trauma and silence
the stoicism that alternates with rage
the kindness that hides anxiety
the struggle to balance darkness with light
walking in the world and hiding from it
the cost of numbing pain,
the weariness of wrestling
the hungry need for forgiveness
the redemption of offering it with no strings
my nephew came home from Afghanistan
in the middle of those years
lots of soldiers from our village were returning
looking much, much older than when they left
I realized that their children would be crippled
by the ghosts of their parents’ war
like I was. I wrote The Impossible Knife of Memory
with those kids in mind. I talked about the book
to my father all the time. He approved,
knowing full well
it was ripped from the pages of our lives.
My favorite scene in that book
takes place in the graveyard
where Hayley ponders the impact of the dead
on the living
how the things once done shape
the not yet dreamed of
she learns how to remember
without being destroyed
Before she died, my mother told me that Daddy
had been institutionalized
diagnosed as manic-depressive
when he was studying
to be a preacher and she worked to pay the bills.
This was right after he beat her
and broke her teeth,
when the ghosts and the dust of war cycloned
through him
and pushed him over the edge.
After that asylum stay
he never received counseling or medication
or therapy
instead, he gutted it out on his knees in prayer
and in long walks by the Erie Canal, begging
for the strength to stay alive
I am eternally, ridiculously grateful
that he found it.
At the end of his life, my father’s mind frayed
at the edges
sometimes the ghosts appeared to be real,
as the veil between the worlds grew thin.
His heart was tired, too.
When a cardiologist suggested a pacemaker
Daddy asked if it would clear the fog
from his brain,
erase the hallucinations, and tame the monsters
busy throwing off their chains,
opening the army trunks
where the real horrors were buried
the doctor said possibly, but probably not
My father stood and said,
“I will not live without my mind,”
then shook the doctor’s hand and told me
it was time to go home.
beeched
Beech forests dance
can see their grace
patterns slow-gliding
synchronized swans
on a still, dark lake
of dirt
Most trees take care of each other
and the beeches are no exception.
Underground tendrils secretly feed
the girl rooted in the sterile glacial till,
old ones lean to the side
so the boy burned by lightning
gets more sun than his brothers.
Survival of the fittest
is a recipe for loneliness,
the beeches susurrate
if you know how to listen,
guaranteeing a nasty life,
brutish and short. When one
suffers,
all are weakened,
but when everyone thrives,
we dance.
say my name
Halse rhymes with faults
assaults, vaults
halts close to scalds
&
nbsp; and haunts
then salts confusion for the unwary
cuz no one can pronounce it
’cept kin
Names have roots deep
like family trees in graveyards
tapping endless wells
guarded by Norns, wyrd sisters
word sisters charged with our fates
Old English roots of
Halse
are tangled in gehálsian
a verb that means “to implore
or invoke the gods;
to speak,”
in Danish, hals means “throat”
William Chalker Halse
fled England in 1798
to Nova Scotia, where he married
a girl named Sarah
her last name
was
. . . . wait for it . . . .
Story
Sarah Story
if I put that in a novel, my editor
would make me cut
it out as too ridiculous to be true
but it is
Halse rhymes with waltz
watch me dance
and don’t forget it
reminder
the wings of angels connect
to their backbones
just behind
their steadfast hearts
tree trunks connect
sun-breathing leaves
chlorphylling with life
to their roots, muddy-dark
the spines of books connect
page to page
writer to reader
teacher to student
page to page
past to future
pain to power
page to page
rage to peace
this note about anatomy
from me
to you
is for the remembering
that after you speak
after you shout
your open mouth
will breathe in
the light for which
you’ve hungered
and your backbone
will unfurl until
you can again dance
to the beat
of your steadfast
heart
POSTLUDE: my why
stories entertain
engage, outrage
uplift, help us
overcome
our troubles
writing rage-poems by the sea
pen, hands, claws stained with ink
until the bottle runs dry
and then I write in blood, spit, and fire
lantern’s light in the mirror
scattering the dark
stories activate, motivate,
celebrate, cerebrate,
snare our fates
and share our great
incarnations of hope
thanks for listening.
Resources for Readers
SEXUAL VIOLENCE
RAINN: RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) is the largest anti–sexual violence organization in the United States of America. In partnership with more than 1,000 local sexual assault service providers, it operates the National Sexual Assault Holtine: 800-656-HOPE (4673), online.rainn.org. En español, rainn.org/es.
END RAPE ON CAMPUS: End Rape on Campus works to end campus sexual violence by supporting survivors, education, and policy reform. endrapeoncampus.org.
FORGE: FORGE is a national transgender anti-violence organization. They help transgender, gender nonconforming, and gender nonbinary survivors of sexual assault. forge-forward.org.
IGNITE: IGNITE Supports survivors of sexual violence and domestic violence who are Deaf, DeafBlind, or Hard of Hearing. deafignite.org.
1IN6: 1IN6 supports male victims of unwanted sexual experiences, sexual abuse, and sexual violence. 1in6.org.
NATIONAL SEXUAL VIOLENCE RESOURCE CENTER: A national information and resource organization that works with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to collect and share resources with people and organizations working to understand and eliminate sexual violence. nsvrc.org.
MENTAL HEALTH
TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS: To Write Love on Her Arms works to help people who are struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide find help and hope. twloha.com.
SUICIDE PREVENTION LIFELINE: National network of crisis centers that offer free emotional support 24/7, including specific resources for kids, LGBTQ+ people, Native Americans, Deaf and Hard of Hearing people, loss survivors, attempt survivors, disaster survivors, and veterans. suicidepreventionlifeline.org. 800-273-TALK (8255)
THE TREVOR PROJECT: Crisis intervention and suicide prevention for LGBTQ+ youth, offering a hotline (phone, text, and online chat), and educational resources for family and allies. thetrevorproject.org.
SAFE HORIZON: Offers resources to survivors of domestic violence, human trafficking, child abuse, stalking, youth homelessness, and domestic violence. safehorizon.org.
SUBSTANCE ABUSE AND MENTAL HEALTH SERVICES ADMINISTRATION: This agency of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services provides services for people struggling with mental health or substance abuse issues. samhsa.gov.
Acknowledgments
The curious practice of turning ideas into poetry and poetry into a book like this one requires a chorus of people whose names must be shouted loudly.
All hail the patient copyeditors! Ryan Sullivan and Marinda Valenti tried their very best to keep me corralled with decent punctuation and grammar, but opened the gate to my stylistic quirks when I asked. The cover designer, Jessica Jenkins, and the designer of the interior, Nancy Brennan, created stunning art that amplifies my words—thank you!
Lindsay Boggs and Kaitlin Kneafsey are Publicity Miracle Workers. Thank you both for helping to put SHOUT into the hands of readers. I’d also like to give a huge shout-out (ha!) to Viking Books publisher Ken Wright, for his constant patience and kindness. A standing ovation goes to all of the other random Penguins who have been cheering on my work for nearly two decades, especially Jen Loja, Carmela Iaria, Erin Berger, Felicia Frazier, Emily Romero, Eileen Bishop Kreit, Shanta Newlin, Mary Raymond, and—last but not least—Trevor Ingerson. Being a part of your family makes me feel brave, and for that I am eternally grateful.
Tusind tak to Pernille Ripp, incredible teacher and founder of the Global Read Aloud (theglobalreadaloud.com) for kindly correcting my Danish spelling and grammar mistakes. Eric Gansworth (Onondaga), Lowery Writer-in-Residence at Canisius College, generously helped me work through the issue of properly centering the violence perpetrated on the Mohawk nation by settlers like my family. Thanks also to G. Donald Cribbs, counselor and author, who helped me develop the robust list of mental health resources.
My agent, Amy Berkower, has listened to me rant, fantasize, rage, and mutter for years, while waiting for books to be born. Thank you, dear friend, for your support and unflagging good cheer. Huzzahs to everyone else at Writers House, especially to Cecilia de la Campa, Executive Director, Global Licensing and Domestic Partnerships, for finding so many homes outside the United States for SHOUT and my other books. I’d also like to give an overdue shout of appreciation to Michael Mejias for his work to make publishing better reflect our country, and who warmly made me feel so welcome when I started working with Writers House.
The writing of this book began at the home of my buddies Greg Anderson and Sue Kressley. Thank you both for the space, the sunrises by the beach, and helping make our family whole. My assistant, Jenn Northington, is equal parts brilliant and magical; capable of creating time and space for me to do the working of writing—THANK YOU, Jenn! I could not have done this without you. My chil
dren and grandchildren are all poetry in motion. They are the light that keeps me going when darkness threatens. My sister-girl Deborah Heiligman is always there for me; in silence, in conversation, in disagreement, in growth, and in love. Thank you for everything, Debi.
This book would not, could not, have been written without the support and encouragement of my editor, Kendra Levin. She shall ever be called Kendra of the Keen Eye and Gentle Heart. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for helping me do this work, and for being such a warrior midwife.
Finally and forever, thank you to my oldest friend, my husband, Scot. Thanks for listening, for wiping away my tears, for bandaging my bruises, for supporting my art and my voice, and for lending me your strength when I couldn’t find my own. This world and the next, my love.
About the Author
Laurie Halse Anderson has received both the Margaret Edwards Award and the ALAN Award for her contributions to young adult literature. She has also been honored by the National Coalition Against Censorship in recognition of her fight to combat the censoring of literature. She is the author of the groundbreaking National Book Award finalist and Printz Honor Book Speak. She is also author of the critically acclaimed YA books Prom, Twitsted, Catalyst, Wintergirls, and The Impossible Knife of Memory. She has also authored a number of middle grade titles including The Vet Volunteers series, and the historical fiction Seeds of America Trilogy, which includes Forge, ALA Best Book for Young Adults Fever 1793, and the National Book Award finalist and Scott O’Dell Award-winner Chains. She and her husband live in northern New York State. Follow Laurie on Twitter @halseanderson and visit her at madwomanintheforest.com.
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