I already know where I’m going to apply.
All small schools, away from the city.
He says we should visit one this weekend,
have an informational interview
while there’s time.
I sputter a fine,
anything to get out of here.
Go to my room.
April knocks,
asks if I’ll help her memorize lines
for the school play.
Mom comes in, watches.
April listens eagerly
as Mom offers her advice.
I roll my eyes,
leave them in my room, rehearsing.
I take a shower,
think about spending the weekend
with Dad at some random college,
about Mom helping April,
as if she’s always been there
for her,
us.
I make the water icy cold,
then all the way
back to
hot.
IF WE COULD FIND ANY STARS
Sneak out,
Dylan asks if I want to smoke up.
I always say no,
but the way Dylan looks at me tonight,
squinting eyes behind shaggy hair,
his John Lennon glasses on,
I say yes.
We climb the Big Rock
in Riverside Park,
reach the top.
Dylan says I seem different.
I tell him I think he’s right,
we’re all in Existential crisis.
He says he misses me nagging him about
his college apps, I’ll be happy to know
he’s thinking of applying early to NYU.
Not long ago, I thought I’d apply early too.
Instead, tomorrow, off to visit some college
in rural Pennsylvania.
I think of telling Dylan about my parents,
how I do feel like a totally different me.
That I don’t know what to do with all this change.
Instead, I inhale,
take in the heavy smoke
from the swirly blue pipe.
Breathe in.
Out.
It feels like my head is caught in a cloud.
Thoughts
fly away
as quickly
as they come.
Dylan opens his
mouth,
it forms a
half crescent
against the sky.
Goes for another hit.
Exhales loudly,
smoke spiraling from our mouths,
he looks into my eyes,
his pupils full moons.
We lie back
together
on the wet rock,
thoughts shooting in and out.
We would look for stars—
if we could find any.
BREATHE AND SWALLOW
Dad and I,
Saturday to Sunday,
visiting Dickinson College.
Scared to be alone with him
in a car, trapped.
Wish I could
just apply to places, not have to see them,
try to get out of it, say
Chloe needs my help,
there’s a Yearbook deadline.
Nothing works.
Dad asks if I want to practice my driving,
I tell him no way.
I haven’t gotten behind the wheel
since failing my road test last year.
Turn on my Walkman,
wait for Manhattan to vanish
into the Pennsylvania hills.
Somewhere between here and there Dad asks
if I’m nervous.
A month ago, I would’ve been.
For a minute
I think about Columbia,
life before,
and something like a lozenge gets stuck in my throat,
I try to
breathe
swallow
around it.
Wonder how forest and highway
can simultaneously exist,
wind the cords from my headphones
tight to tighter
around my wrists.
GRACE
A brick town square, a flag, a church:
the small town of Carlisle,
the college at its heart,
cradled in farmlands
and Central Pennsylvania hills.
Grace, the Admissions interviewer,
shakes my hand, smiles warmly—
Sitting there,
in this greenhouse of an office,
full of plants and light wood,
I try to put back on my old self.
Talk to Grace enthusiastically
about Astronomy, Yearbook, Peer Mentorship.
She asks about New York City.
Flash to the cyclones of trash,
the homeless, the rush of crowds.
I tell her the city is vibrant, energetic,
but I’m ready for a change,
I need the peace
of small town life, for a while.
I ask her if students can see the stars at night.
And she smiles.
CHANGES IN BRIGHTNESS
I.
On the ride home
watch the trees and hills,
think of Grace and the stars,
wonder if
pushing time forward,
racing past this part
could be just what I need.
If college in the country
will be my bright place,
and I just need to get from here
to there.
II.
Home.
Notice how messy
the house has become.
Laundry unfolded,
dishes left undone.
I pick up a shirt
to fold it,
hear
April and Mom
on the couch, laughing,
throw it back down.
They’re eating chips, watching a home video—
the one where April and I made up a play,
Barbies attacked by our Pound Puppies,
enemies first then friends.
They’re laughing at one of the songs we made up.
April sings along with the movie.
Dad sits down, right away, to watch,
Mom’s hand on his knee.
Video Dad comes in,
so tan and young, with his old friend Manuel.
Sneak a look at Dad, smiling,
I wonder if he’s a former lover.
I watch as young Dad touches my head. Young Mira leans into him.
Try to remember now how it felt,
being with him,
feeling like the world was safe.
III.
Video Mira is all smiles, bright.
But the star Mira changes in brightness
1,400 times in a year.
Half the time it’s visible
to the naked eye,
the other half it can’t even be seen
with binoculars.
Standing there,
amidst a family I don’t recognize,
I fade, go dim.
Even the flicker of lightness I felt,
the hopeful promise of a new life in the country,
seems to darken.
Sit down,
&
nbsp; Dad says.
And April, too, asks me to come watch, please.
Mom pats a spot next to her.
I whisper
no thanks.
Flicker.
Fade
out.
SHREDS
I.
Dad asks if I will make the stuffing
on Thanksgiving.
Usually he does the whole meal without our help.
He says I’m old enough, he trusts me.
I don’t want to,
but I do it.
Chop the celery, the onions,
methodically, evenly, like he taught me,
but soon my wrist tires,
the smell of turkey sickens me,
all my pieces go jagged.
When I go to do the bread,
it gets burned, curls up,
blackening the bright red pan.
I touch my finger to the heat, unthinking,
it stings for a minute, then forms
a small white planet bubble.
I don’t shred more bread,
don’t run my finger under the water,
I just let it all
burn.
II.
We eat, turkey without stuffing,
Mom, Dad, April,
all pretending
nothing is different.
They ask me questions, I say little.
Not knowing what would come out, if I really spoke.
Not wanting to yell at them, in front of April.
Instead, between bites, I squeeze my burnt finger.
At the end of the meal,
I look down to find my napkin shredded,
like torn clouds on my lap.
DEFLATING
Later April and I walk
to Central Park West,
the parade floats, deflating:
Mighty Mouse with shrunken arms,
Olive Oyl’s huge foot waves in the sky.
April asks me why did I
burn the stuffing.
I tell her I didn’t do it on purpose,
she asks am I sure.
Raggedy Ann falls at the waist.
Kermit dives headfirst.
April says that she likes it better, knowing the truth
about Mom and Dad, that they seem happier now.
Olive Oyl’s other foot falls, deflated.
I say well, you aren’t the one who walked in on Dad and James.
Her face falls. I regret my words.
She says she misses me.
I tell her I’m still here, for her.
We pass people parading home,
hordes of stores sit closed,
streetlights perched like spy cameras,
watching the crowds go,
until April and I are the only ones left
on these abandoned streets.
CHIMES AND CRYSTALS
We’re almost back to our street
but I can’t go home yet.
On Broadway:
an OPEN sign.
Celestial Treasures.
Dad calls it a woo-woo store, full of New Age junk.
April and I pause,
chimes and crystals rainbow,
tiny unicorns and fairies
freckle purple felt.
I want to reach
through the store window,
sit there, play
with the creatures.
Tell April to be the tallest unicorn,
I will be the fairy who just earned her wings.
Who cares what Dad thinks?
Push open the door,
a shrill woman’s voice whinnies
over the sound of bagpipes,
April and I smile at each other,
move further in.
We flip through Goddess Tarot Cards.
Sniff jasmine, sandalwood, eucalyptus.
Spy rows of medicinal herbs, vitamins.
Try on mood rings,
look up our birthdays on charts.
There’s a huge star map,
like Mr. Lamb’s,
but this one’s exploding colors and pictures:
myths that explain the names of constellations.
I read to April,
point out each planet.
But when I turn around,
she’s near a woman
with auburn hair
and lilac scarves.
Her name is Gloria,
she can help us,
if we need anything.
April moves toward her,
I pick up a rain stick.
April now
on the other
side of the store,
light as a leaf,
happy she said
with what our family’s
become.
I shake the stick
the sound pours over me
like being trapped inside
a waterfall—
April: on one side,
out of reach—
Me: on the other,
enclosed in a pounding curtain of rain.
WINTER
SUMMON A STORM
Harsh winter wind leaves
a cold layer
over everything,
no way to get warm.
Icy air coats
our apartment,
the space between me
and my family.
Insides matching outsides.
At Yearbook, I enter
and they are already working:
the sports pages,
each sport a planet unto itself.
A few months ago
I would’ve loved to see
this focus, determination.
Now I just want them to go,
spin out, away.
One of them asks where the field day collage went—
the one I destroyed—
I say it’s already off to the printer.
A lie that
flies easily from my tongue.
A parachute of lies that
holds me up lately.
They say isn’t it early,
I say not for color collages.
They believe me.
I open my desk drawer,
the erasers, staples,
still sit so neatly.
When no one is looking,
I summon a storm:
with a thunder
I
hail paper clips rain tacks
turn order into chaos.
WINTER LIGHT
The office door opens.
Sunlight beams in: Adam.
He says surprise, he’s home for winter break.
So relieved I am to see him,
for a second it’s like nothing’s changed,
my life makes sense and I know who I am.
I run to him.
Hug him.
His smell is something new.
The staff huddles around us, him,
asks what college is like, if he misses Yearbook,
he smiles at me, says he misses other things more.
He’s impressed by our layouts,
I shut the messed-up drawer.
Tell him I’m so happy he’s here.
He says it is just for tonight;
his family leaves for Jamaica in the morning.
That night, something else new—
we play quarters with his old high school friends.
He says he’s been drinking some, college, experimentation
.
I nod, tell him likewise, and his friend Dave gives me a drink
each time a quarter lands in the Statue of Liberty mug.
Plink. Plink.
Drink.
DEAFENING
Back at his parents’ apartment,
I ask Adam if he’s been with anyone.
He says none of that matters,
he’s here with me.
I tell him just the sight of him
makes things feel calmer.
Easier.
I straddle him on his perfectly made bed.
My hair curtains his face,
his eyes are closed,
and I’m drunk enough not to care
that we’re no longer together,
drunk enough to say
one of the things I have to share.
I tell him I wanted to lose my virginity to him
before he left but—
He interrupts me, says
there’s no time like the present.
Puts a lock of hair behind my ear.
Traces a heart with his finger on my knee.
My head spins.
I wonder, if I let him in,
if he could light me, even from a distance,
the way the moon is only bright
because it bathes in the sun’s light.
Or how sailors look to the North Star
to guide them, give direction.
Maybe Adam could be that for me again.
I look down, up into his eyes.
Nod my head.
And for a minute,
my head buzzing with beer,
all I want is for Adam to
pour himself into me.
His face floats above me,
so close, so familiar,
but all I can see is James, lying naked, on my parents’ bed.
And I can’t.
I push Adam off.
Tell him no.
He grumbles
geez, Mira, you’re going to have to grow up sometime.
I tell him growing up sucks.
He shrugs. Doesn’t agree.
The heat clicks on, deafening
Adam’s harsh words—
they float out
into
the howling
December winds.
I follow.
WINDSWEPT
Shut the door quietly,
out of Adam’s apartment,
walk to the gold-mirrored elevator,
my reflection framed in the warp of its mirror:
just a little girl at night,
on a balcony,
my long knotted hair,
eyes squinting
up.
I don’t go straight home,
Skyscraping Page 4
