is what we called her. The story was
that her father had thrown Drano at her
which was probably true, given the way she slouched
through fifth grade, afraid of the world, recess
especially. She had acne scars
before she had acne—poxs and dips
and bright red patches.
I don't remember
any report in the papers. I don't remember
my father telling me her father had gone to jail.
I never looked close to see the particulars
of Crater Face's scars. She was a blur, a cartoon
melting. Then, when she healed—her face,
a million pebbles set in cement.
Even Comet Boy,
who got his name by being so abrasive,
who made fun of everyone, didn't make fun
of her. She walked over the bridge
with the one other white girl who lived
in her neighborhood. Smoke curled
like Slinkies from the factory stacks
I liked to imagine that Crater Face
went straight home, like I did, to watch Shirley Temple
on channel 56. I liked to imagine that she slipped
into the screen, bumping Shirley with her hip
so that child actress slid out of frame, into the tubes
and wires that made the TV sputter when I turned it on.
Sometimes when I watched, I'd see Crater Face
tap-dancing with tall black men whose eyes
looked shiny, like the whites of hard-boiled eggs.
I'd try to imagine that her block was full
of friendly folk, with a lighthouse or goats
running in the street.
It was my way of praying,
my way of un-imagining the Drano pellets
that must have smacked against her
like a round of mini-bullets,
her whole face as vulnerable as a tongue
wrapped in sizzling pizza cheese.
How she'd come home with homework,
the weight of her books bending her into a wilting plant.
How her father called her slut, bitch, big baby, slob.
The hospital where she was forced to say it was an accident.
Her face palpable as something glowing in a Petri dish.
The bandages over her eyes.
In black and white,
with all that make-up, Crater Face almost looked pretty
sure her MGM father was coming back soon from the war,
seeing whole zoos in her thin orphanage soup.
She looked happiest when she was filmed
from the back, sprinting into the future,
fading into tiny gray dots on UHF.
Denise Duhamel's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Crater Face by Denise Duhamel )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(2 July 1923 – 1 February 2012)
Winifred Emma May
(1907 - 1990)
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- The Saddest Poem, Pablo Neruda
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- A Fairytale, Apolynn Lagaras
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- As I Grew Older, Langston Hughes
- April Rain Song, Langston Hughes
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
Poem of the Day
- Cage, Sarvesh wahie
- You Keep The Sea, Naveed Akram
- There's nothing like dance, Yisel Chong
- No One Could Ever Understand, Thabang Rakimane
- You made me evil, Yisel Chong
- The time machine, Yisel Chong
- Blue-eyed boy Mr. Death for e.e. cummings, r james sterzinger
- Salvation Jane, vince gullaci
- A Girl Called Memory, Mashewa1 Nthele
- A Fairytale, Apolynn Lagaras