Sonya Sones
home  •  my books  •  bio  •  what’s new?  •  events  •  banned books  •  visits  •  faqs  • contact
for writers  •  office tour  •  what I'm reading  •  great novels  •  novels in verse  •  photos  •  buy
Sonya Sones What My Mother Doesn't Know To Be Perfectly Honest Facebook Sonya Sones Twitter Sonya Sones Sonya Sones Pinterest Instagram Sonya Sones Tumblr page
Some Poems from One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies
American Airlines Flight 161
I'm not that depressed,
considering that this
gigantic silver bullet with wings
is blasting me away from my whole entire life,
away from Lizzie Brody,
my best friend in the world,
away from Ray Johnston,
my first real boyfriend.
Not that depressed,
considering I’ve been kidnapped
by this monstrous steel pterodactyl
and it's flying me all the way to L.A.
to live with my father
who I've never even met
because he’s such a scumbag
that he divorced my mother
before I was even born.
I’d say I’m doing reasonably well,
considering I’m being dragged
three thousand miles away from all my friends
and my school and my Aunt Duffy
and the house I’ve lived in ever since I was born,
three thousand miles away from my mother,
and my mother’s grave,
where she lies in a cold wooden box
under six feet of dirt,
just beginning to rot.
I'm not that depressed
considering that I’m trapped
on this jumbo poison dart
shooting me away from everything I love,
and there’s this real weird guy
sitting in the seat right behind mine,
who keeps picking his nose
and eating it.
Depressed?
Who? Me?
It Figures
The pilot
just announced
that there’s a breathtaking view
of the Grand Canyon
for the passengers who are seated
on the left side of the aircraft.
Guess which side
I’m sitting on?
My Earliest Memory
I’ll probably be lying on a ratty old couch
telling some nosy shrink about this in a few years:
I was just about to turn four.
My aunt Duffy told me she was going to give me
a very special present for my birthday.
She said she was going to take me to see my daddy.
But only if I promised not to tell my mommy.
I remember crossing my heart and hoping to die,
and hurrying to put on my brand new red sparkle shoes.
Then she popped me into her Volkswagen
and whisked me off to a movie theater.
I figured my dad was going to meet us there.
I remember searching every face in the lobby,
trying to pick him out of the crowd,
while my heart tap-danced against my ribs.
I could hardly wait to show my daddy (my daddy!)
those new shoes.
I remember the lights going down, the film coming on,
and there still being no sign of him.
“But where is he?” I demanded to know,
on the verge of a major meltdown.
Aunt Duffy put her arm around me,
then pointed to this enormous face up on the movie screen
and said, “There he is, Ruby.
That’s your daddy.
Your daddy's Whip Logan.”
 
Dinner
I thought there’d be a butler.
Some guy with an English accent
and white gloves, hovering
with assorted silver trays,
lifting off shining domed lids
to reveal steaming, steaming …
Oh, I don’t know.
Steaming crumpets or something.
But it’s just Whip.
And me.
Surrounded by
an acre of kitchen.
Just Whip.
And me.
And at least one of every cooking device
known to mankind.
There’s even a spatula that automatically
flips pancakes when you press a button.
Which Whip happens to be demonstrating
at this very moment.
He looks like such an idiot in that apron,
going on and on about
how his macadamia nut pancakes
are renowned the world over
and about how if he hadn’t been an actor
he probably would have been a chef
and about how tangy the oranges from his trees
are at this time of year
and about how he gave his assistant
the weekend off
but I’m going to love him when I meet him
because he's a real hoot
and about how it’s fun sometimes
to have breakfast for dinner, isn’t it?
And on and on and on and on.
until the doorbell rings.
 
Whip's Up to His Elbows in Pancake Batter
So he sends me to see who it is.
I swing open the door, and practically fall over—
there, standing right in front of me,
is Cameron Diaz.
She grins when she sees my jaw drop,
and explains that she lives next door.
Cameron Diaz is my next door neighbor?!
Then she says she’s so glad to meet me.
She says Whip’s told her all about me.
Cameron Diaz knows things about me?!
She says she hates to be a bother
but she was wondering if Whip
could loan her some vanilla extract
for this birthday cake that she’s baking for Drew.
Drew Barrymore?!
Then she breezes right past me straight toward the kitchen,
like she’s been here a million times before.
Whip lights up when he sees her
and sweeps her into a hug.
She kisses his cheek.
She only stays a minute,
but it’s plenty long enough for me to ask
myself the weirdest question of all time:
Is Cameron Diaz going to be my stepmother?
Three palms
Sonya Sones' books
Copyright 2004-. Sonya Sones. All rights reserved.
To Be Perfectly Honest Stop Pretending What My Mother Doesn't Know What My Girlfriend Doesn't Know One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies The Hunchback of Neiman-Marcus Necessary Noise Sixteen Sonya Sones Collection Saving Red