Green stars meant something bad:
you hadn't finished your vegetables
or had left some chore undone. Red
were just okay--nothing special,
nothing bad either. Silver stars,
worth a dime each: above
and beyond. Gold, best of all,
and worth twenty cents.

So we toiled to be good,
to have our star cards
shimmer gold and silver. It was
our father's idea, the star system,
like all our systems. Every night
before bed, our mother would review
our days, then lick a colored star
and paste it on our cards:
seven stars a week.
Sundays, we did not go to church,
but we cashed in our row of stars
for a few dimes.

How I longed for those shiny dimes,
Franklin Roosevelt or the winged Mercury
on the front, the feel of them
in my hand. It was greed
that drove me
to sweep the outside stairs
or iron the big tablecloths.
But even now, I am
haunted by my childish question:
How good was I today?

               Not quite a gold star.
               Not quite enough.

From On the Water Meridian (Hummingbird Press, 2007).
Used with the author's permission.