BeingAnnaxBeing Anna MeansGrowing my hair long
and dyeing the tips
universe blue,
drawing spiderwebs
on the tops of my hands
and wearing combat boots
even though no other kid
in Ms. Garland’s
sixth-grade class
looks anything like that.
It means writing
ghost poems
in my math notebook,
words curling across
tiny graph-paper squares
like silvery smoke.
It means inviting spirits
to speak through my hands,
whispering
in the secret places
between now and never again.
xBeing Anna MeansSeeing ghosts
wherever I look,
children
centuries old,
their quick footsteps
skittering
like autumn leaves,
a cold hand
on my shoulder,
a voice in my ear
insistent as wind.
xMiss Mary MackThey sit beside me
in the cafeteria,
ghosts with pale braids,
faces the color of ash.
Sometimes
all they want
is to tell me stories
of how they passed away.
Other times
they want to play
the games they used to love.
I know I look strange
hand-clapping the air.
No one would believe
I am singing rhymes
with a ghost
who was in sixth grade
a century ago
when the school was new
and no one roamed
the corridors
except living, breathing children.
xRing-Around-the-RosyA pocket full of posies
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
We spin like ballerinas,
letting our circles take us
around the world and back,
breathless.
I twirl and laugh out loud
even though I know
to the world it looks
like I am dancing by myself.
xTeacher’s NoteDear Mr. and Mrs. Fleischman,
I am reaching out about Anna.
She spends most of her day
pretending to play with ghosts.
It scares the other children.
Would you come in to speak with me?
Oh, Anna, Mom sighs,
what are we going to do with you?
At the dinner table
my little sister
kicks her legs and sings.
Everyone loves
how hard she tries
to be happy and good.
Mama, look,
says Evie, grinning
like a jack-o’-lantern.
I lost a tooth today.
I am growing up so fast.
It’s true, little sister.
I just hope
you don’t grow up like me.
xDancing with GhostsBeing Anna means
never getting invited
to sleepovers
except once
in fourth grade,
when Eden Antonio
said I could come
because our mothers
are on the PTO together
but it didn’t mean
she liked me.
I hid in my sleeping bag
while Eden’s friends
braided hair, told secrets,
and laughed behind cruel hands.
I didn’t come out
until the last one fell asleep.
I rose in the moonlit night
and tiptoed
to the open window.
No one saw it but me:
the whole street
was filled with spirits.
And then
I remember
one ragged little ghost
holding out her hand.
xAwakeningsThe next morning
they found me
outside the window
hugging my knees
with oak leaves in my hair.
What on earth
are you doing out here?
What’s wrong with you?
What could I have said?
That I would rather
twirl in moonlight
and fall asleep
in the dewy clover
and never be invited
to a sleepover again
than pretend
for one more moment
that I am
the same kind of girl
as them?
Copyright © 2025 by Marcella Pixley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
