by Chris Baron
and as the years roll by,
the colorful fish
disappear, one by one.
The ones left behind
thrive as best they can,
but the cool rain
mixes with the salt;
the brackish water,
becomes fresher and fresher.
Slowly the dinosaurs,
over a thousand generations,
turn from dinosaurs
to lake monsters,
long and serpentine,
shorter teeth,
wider paddles,
out of space and time,
until finally,
this one tiny lake monster
is the only one left,
afraid
of itself,
lost in a memory
it can’t understand.
It dives into
the loch,
eight hundred feet down
so it isn’t seen,
its bulk too great,
the fish too small,
the pike, the char,
even the stickleback
runs thin.
It doesn’t belong here,
bloated, outdated, long-necked
and long-toothed,
its tail swirling in the choppy waters.
After generations,
it knows that people
are staring at it,
gathering on the shoreline,
the edge of the castle,
near the forest,
to see its murky form
even as it tries
to skim trout near
the surface or see
the colors swirl
in the reflections of the sun
from underneath.
It misses the light,
swims the span of the lake
looking for an opening
between the worlds,
a memory inside
its DNA,
its soul,
something more
that it’s never seen
but can’t stop looking for.
Home,
other creatures like itself.
It needs to know that
it isn’t some mistake.
In the cartoon,
the people on the boat
wear yellow raincoats,
throw a party for Nessie,
celebrate as the three
ancient humps arc out of the water,
and then, in rainbow verse
across the screen
for the viewers,
What do you think?
The tail of the lake monster
coils around the words.
Pick walks over to me,
I look up from my memory,
the book clutched tightly in my hands.
He looks at the pages,
points to a glossy, fake-looking
photo of Nessie.
We should definitely
have some monsters
in the game, he says,
and they should be
fighting for good.
Ketosis
I am eating myself.
My body fights,
accumulates ketones,
fat breaking down,
starving for carbohydrates,
sugar, everything it can remember.
Everything it once knew,
washed away into waste.
My body remembers,
especially my tongue,
the way the crust of pizza
marries the cheese and sauce.
My body remembers
the juicy splendor
of an orange cut open,
the creaminess
of a banana,
an apple dipped in honey.
My body remembers
a night in the city
when my father
handed me a five,
sent me down the street
for Hostess cupcakes
and lemon fruit pies.
But my body also remembers
hands that push
and reach, back and forth,
because a kid my size can take it.
My body remembers
the tetherball court,
too many names, too many hands,
too many voices in the circle
around the game.
My body remembers
the crying rage,
throwing Jay to the ground,
fist after fist
and the solid knock
of knuckles and flesh
and blood and blond hair
and wiry braces.
My body remembers.
My body is fighting itself,
and in its desperation,
it’s eating its fat.
There Is a Space
In the morning,
when I put on my shorts,
I feel something odd.
There is a space, no bigger than
the tip of my pinkie,
between the waistline of my shorts
and my body.
I put my finger inside the space
and walk outside
beneath the grape arbor.
I whisper to myself,
in a sacred tone,
It’s working.
I check all day
to see if the space is still there.
How Many Pounds?
The scale
lives in the kitchen,
so on Fridays
I step onto it
and write down on a sticky note
the number it says.
After one week,
the number is lower by two.
Studio Days
Every day with Pick and Lisa,
we make art,
shoot bows and arrows,
do chores.
We carry moist clay bricks,
twenty-five pounds each,
into stacks at the back
of the gallery, place them
where the Artist needs them.
One brick a week for us.
We work on our trolls,
fill shelves
and empty spaces
with mischievous creatures.
At lunch, I eat burgers with no buns,
and salad, bring cheese-and-meat roll-ups wherever I go.
Pick and Lisa try to eat like I do.
I tell them they don’t have to,
and sometimes they share bags of chips
or candy, but they try their best
not to do it around me,
and I am starting to feel stronger.
Each week, I weigh myself.
I slowly watch the numbers change.
At night we watch the stars swirl
through the skylight,
listen to the sounds of people
walking around town.
Sometimes we open the studio
and have art shows.
We talk about our dreams,
pretend they are windows into the future.
We gather at the breakfast table,
a circle of prophets.
Lisa talks about a dream
where I’m wearing a white-and-green
Hawaiian shirt, and I’m skateboarding
in a school parking lot.
In the dream, she says, I am half of myself.
I smile, try to imagine it,
and for the first time,
it feels possible,
but I wonder
what it would mean
if I actually lose half
of who I am?
Shore Break
We go to the beach.
Lisa teaches us that
at least once a day
you have to put your feet
in the ocean. We lie in the sand
without towels.
We learn to bodysurf,
pulling our heads up and out
just before we slam down
on the churning sand.
Jorge
Bolinas Ridge,
I tell Lisa. We need to do it.
She smiles, lets the sand
filter through her fingers.
Lisa’s eyes squint
at the sun above me.
I feel the sand shift behind,
off-balance.
Jorge towers there.
His skin and hair are dark.
His words are swallowed
in his smile.
I heard you say Bolinas Ridge?
I hike there all the time.
He talks about
living here his whole life.
We ask him lagoon questions
and about the hippies
who live in Bolinas.
He tells us they like
to remove the highway
signs to keep people away.
Sometimes My Father Comes
Some days
my father drives out to see us,
but he won’t stay.
Sometimes he takes
a drive with my mother.
Sometimes, after the drive,
they stand at the car
just outside the gate.
Their voices are drums
booming without any measure.
We watch through the gate
until the giant form of my father
turns to come in and say good-bye.
He makes promises.
We’ll go to the comic store,
we’ll take a hike near Inverness,
I’ll show you the elk
on the peninsula.
He hugs me.
My mother stands near the dirt and gravel
where the Sunbird was parked.
She won’t come in for a long time.
Shopping
One morning,
we go to the outlet stores.
I refuse to go in.
Mom takes Lisa inside.
I sit in the car,
the air thickening,
the heat pushing down
on the leather seats,
reading Ogre, Ogre
by Piers Anthony.
Smash the half ogre
is trying to solve
a vague dissatisfaction
about himself,
some discomfort
lodged in his mind
and body,
like the slow tick
of a faraway clock.
He decides
at last
to seek help.
Hours (maybe) later,
Lisa and my mother
come out of the store,
bending and swaying
like apple trees,
overloaded branches
with translucent plastic bags
of clothes and shoes.
Lisa smiles at me.
When we reach the nursery,
they have a fashion show
in the courtyard.
Clothes pile up on the wooden floor
and in front of the huge mirror,
where Lisa spins in skirts,
some tight, some overflowing.
Tight-fitting T-shirts, rifting at the belly,
and flowering blouses,
the sculptures looking on
in tranquil indifference.
I see her joy,
and I feel my fire.
I’ve always liked the way she looks,
but when I see her so happy
in her colorful new clothes,
it feels as if a hand is reaching
through my stomach
and into my chest,
pulling at my heart
until I can’t breathe.
I want to tell her something
about how she looks,
but I don’t.
Lisa sings some song into the mirror,
lifting her hair out of the collar
of her new pink shirt.
She turns to her side,
poses with her chin lowered,
her blond hair
falling slightly over her eyes.
How do I look? she asks.
My body is burning.
I walk over to where she is,
and I stand near the mirror.
Smile.
This place, I think, was made for her.
Lisa looks toward the gate.
She looks back to me,
and her steady hands
land on my shoulders.
Thank you, she whispers.
For what? I ask, smiling.
But she doesn’t answer.
Maps
Pick comes later that day with his mom.
She wants to see the nursery.
We spend the afternoon
outside with a bucket of markers,
pastels, and old paints,
drawing maps for the game.
Pick loves to draw maps,
and Lisa draws in the borders.
Sometime in the afternoon,
we decide to make a map
of the gallery so we can
always remember.
See You July Fourth
That evening
Pick goes
home with his mom.
He has to start some kind of camp
in Sausalito for one week.
I promise to work on the game.
I’ll be back for the Fourth of July!
he says. Try to think
about the damage charts.
I promise I will.
I try, but I don’t think about them at all.
Not once.
The Walk
Lisa carries a backpack
that unfolds into a beach chair.
The effortless straps
curl around her shoulders,
push her chest out.
Her white shark-tooth necklace
falls down the center.
Her blond hair,
in a wavy drop
to the middle of her back,
pushes around
her blue bikini,
rainbow sandals
edging perfectly along
the beach path.
I am just behind her,
too slow
for her determined walk,
her mirrored aviator sunglasses,
her pursed lips,
her focus.
By the beach path,
some older boys
get between us,
walk next to her.
They talk to her,
but she hides behind
her mirrored glasses.
It’s not just how slow I am.
It’s that I’m afraid.
I shrink back
in these moments
and realize how young I am.
I mean, I sculpt trolls
out of clay
and design role-playing games
with my best friend.
I’m on a diet
where I can’t even eat bread.
These boys
with football hands
and chalky blond hair,
strange smells
and too many muscles.
What can I do?
Lisa stops in the sand
and looks back at me.
Her body turns sideways,
and she holds out her hand
for mine.
Elysium at the Beach
We find our spot
almost all the way to the water.
She spreads out her chair
and breathes.
Slowly she unpacks
her things,
water, lotion, books.
She’s reading two now,
A Wrinkle in Time
and a romance novel.
Lisa rubs sunscreen
on her legs.
I stare at the water
as much as I can,
&
nbsp; until she asks,
Get my back?
My hands shake.
I tell myself,
like a brother,
like a friend,
just a friend,
but it doesn’t matter.
Her skin feels smooth
in my hands.
I let myself do it slowly,
a little embarrassed.
She trusts me to do this.
She is aware of every moment.
She’s not afraid of what I’m feeling.
It doesn’t change how she treats me.
Later, after we swim,
we talk about characters
from the stories we write.
Elysium, she-warrior,
driven out of her
village as a young girl,
captured, made a servant,
learned to fight
in the gladiator pits,
until one day,
with the help of Thall,
she escaped.
Jorge’s House
Later that week
Jorge invites us to dinner,
even my mother.
It’s just him and his mom,
in a one-bedroom house
near the Bolinas school,
through redwood groves.
His house is
filled with cooking pots
and yellow plates
on the red walls.
Over the fireplace,
black-and-white photos
of men on horseback,
and a well-dressed couple
from long ago.
On a long wooden table,
his mom
is placing
silver plates
with different foods
in circle patterns,
yellow cheese,
a pile of almonds,
some cold fish like the herring
my father eats,
some meat on skewers.
There are several plates
of purple, black, and green olives.
My mother walks
right to her,
places her hand on the fabric
of her long blue skirt,
and starts in
on the beauty
of the fabric,
the smell of the food.
Jorge tells us to have some
sopes. Lisa does.
I eye the bread and almonds,
but I stay with ham and slabs of cheese.
At dinner,
Lisa pours some wine in her cup
when no one is looking.
Jorge helps to translate
when his mother speaks too fast
