Lesson 2.
The Evolution of “Lottery”
Journal Entry
That’s 6 and a half million a year after
taxes you tell me, of the man who won
$111 million. That’s more than Trump!
I have our lottery tickets in here you
pt to your black billfold with the brown
ribbing. Rummage further into your
hangbag. Kleenex, bent envelopes, a
crumpled single dollar rising over your
wrist as you dig. The lottery tickets are
two weeks old. Bought on the eve of
my departure for California when I took
her to Woodman’s to buy everything
she needed while I was gone. Two
cartons of ciggarettes, 3 gal. of milk,
rice cakes and black bellied bottles of
diet rite—I want to buy a lottery ticket
you said, and weaved your way, half
blind, exhausted, sore knees from side
to side pushed the weight of your body
to the far end of the store, by videos
and ice cream and packaged liquor.
You had your numbers picked out,
written large and clear on a tear of
scrap cardboard, bright yellow.
Neither of us knew how to go about
it. Mother could not teach daughter.
Daughter could not get it done. I rubbed
in the dots for you. Bought a computer
generated one for me—only lingering
slightly over your numbers. Trying to
register their significance—and not
seeing any immediately didn’t dare
intrude into their origin—ask on what you
are basing your luck. Just as now I don’t
ask you if you know how they decided
how many years to divide $111 million
by to make this man rich for the rest of
his life, or what (I don’t want to ask) you
would do with the money—could it buy
back your teeth, your eyesight, your light
strong bones and lean flesh.
You didn’t check our numbers that
night I was on vacation But no one else
has claimed it you tell me as if that’s all
it takes to mean everything, all of it, is
out there waiting for us to win, to call
claim, start celebrating.
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ENG1_U2_SR_HO.indd 7
Draft 2 of Poem: “Lottery”
Everything you would need
the week of my vacation
could be found at Woodman’s:
two cartons of ciggarettes
three gallons of milk
unsalted rice cakes and
six black bottles of diet cola.
I want to
buy a lottery ticket,
you added and weaved worn-out,
stiff-kneed, half-blind,
to the far end of the store
near the videos, ice cream,
and packaged liquor
Neither of us knew how to go about it.
You had already chosen your
 numbers,
written in large cursive
on a tear of yellow cardboard.
I fumbled, rubbing in the dots for you,
lingered slightly over your numbers
to register their significance, but
 found none.
You did not check the ticket while I
 was gone,
and look for it now in the depths of
 your purse,
kleenex, envelopes, a dollar bill
rising over your wrists as you dig.
That’s six and a half million a year for life!
you think of the man who won last
 winter,
and I do not ask how they figured
the number of years in his life, nor do
 I ask
what you would do with the money
Buy back your teeth? Your eyesight,
light bones and lean flesh?
Buy back the Tennessee summers
you played squirt guns with us
and caught fireflies we could sell to
 science
for thirty cents a hundred?
No one else has claimed it!
you say, as if that alone
makes everything possible,
and all of it is out there waiting for you
to start up this celebration.
7 Pre-AP English 1
Unit 2
HANDOUT
2.2.B
Final Draft of Poem: “Lottery”
Everything my mother needs
can be found at Woodman’s:
two cartons of ciggarettes
a gallon of milk,
unsalted rice cakes and
six black bottles of diet cola.
I want to buy a lottery ticket.
she adds and weaves stiff-kneed,
half-blind, to the far end of the
 store
near the videos and packaged
 liquor.
She has already chosen the
 numbers,
written them in large cursive
on a scrap of yellow cardboard.
Neither of us knows how to go
 about it.
I fumble, rubbing in the dots,
lingering slightly over her
 numbers
but find no significance.
That’s six and a half million a
 year for life!
she says of the man who won
 last winter
and I do not ask how one
 figures
the number of years left in his
 life.
Nor do I ask if she will buy back
her teeth, eyes, strong bones
 and lean flesh.
Buy back the summers
she played squirt guns with us
and caught fireflies I could sell
 to science
for thirty cents a hundred.
No one has claimed it!
she whispers, as if everything
is still possible.
20/04/20 7:09 PM