June 24, 2009

Barbara Dalton


I wrote a poem and was asked
to read it to the class.
I stood proud and nervous:


I put some water in a bowl

In this I put a tadpole

He squirmed and squiggled

But couldn’t get out

So all he did was swim about

He dropped his tail behind a log

And turned himself

Into a frog.

I glanced up to stifled giggles.
Okay, I thought, they like it,
but it isn’t supposed to be that funny.
A kid from the back row
pointed toward my knees.

Hot blood scorched my cheeks.
The belt I'd tied so tightly around my waist
was way too big and my hand-me-down skirt
had hiked up, exposing
underwear and bare thighs.

I’ve feared public speaking ever since.


Barbara Dalton is a professional artist who loves to write. Born in Boston, she works in her studio above a barn and lives on a farm with her cat, Rufus, in Southern Michigan. She is currently working on her first novel, Lost in Place. Her media is 'found object' art and she displays her work in various galleries across the country.

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