Skyscraping

by Cordelia Jensen

  wander a bit in the night,

  think about how quickly people can change,

  act in ways you don’t expect.

  An unpredicted storm that

  leaves people out,

  windswept,

  in the cold.

  CONSEQUENCES

  3am.

  I walk past piles of mail,

  clutter on the table.

  Dad sees my reflection

  in the hallway mirror

  before I see him.

  He tells me to sit down,

  says he knows I’m upset,

  that I’m trying to punish him

  for what happened,

  for things being different than they seemed.

  He says he never meant for his choices to hurt us.

  Somehow this makes it worse,

  like he wasn’t even thinking of me, April, our family.

  I ask him why he’s even awake.

  He says he’s not feeling well,

  been up all night, in the bathroom.

  Says not to distract him from the issue at hand,

  this is unacceptable, I’m grounded—

  something I’ve never been before.

  His face changes then,

  Dad looks so different

  than the person who

  used to help me with my homework,

  hushed me back to sleep after a nightmare.

  This man is

  unfamiliar.

  But all I say is fine, I’m grounded.

  Whatever that means.

  He says no going out this week after school.

  No talking on the phone either.

  He says there have to be consequences

  for bad behavior.

  Then he walks down the hall,

  steadies himself

  hand to wall.

  In the mirror

  I watch

  his giant shadow shrink,

  disappear.

  RECORDING SESSION

  December

  SESSION THREE

  I want to get just a few more questions in before break.

  Question six: What would you like your legacy to be? If you could only teach us—or your students—one thing, what would it be?

  It would be to challenge yourself. Let the world move you. Make something of your own, something new.

  Sounds like a Hallmark card.

  Miranda—

  Fine. Can you be more specific?

  Okay, well, this student I had when I was teaching high school Spanish—Camilla. She made her own time travel machine from cardboard when we read A Wrinkle in Time. Or the way you and your sister have made videos, written songs, how you feel when you are making Yearbook, how your mom feels when she’s making art, or me, making a costume. Just in the zone. Stay true to your art, your passion. I would want you to remember that.

  Why?

  Because the world can be a confusing, scary place, Miranda. Not everything will make sense. But you can control your choices. You can control your creations. It can help make the world feel manageable. I see you struggling—

  Question seven: What would you put in a time capsule to represent your life?

  (Laughs) That’s a ridiculous question.

  Dad. Just answer it.

  I don’t know. A copy of Don Quixote. A chess piece. A feather.

  COLD GROWS COLDER

  The week I’m grounded,

  time seems to still.

  Silent, empty.

  I mark time

  by problems half-solved.

  Paragraphs half-read.

  Finally, winter break.

  Chloe and I used to spend it having

  double sleepovers at my house, playing Clue VCR,

  eating cookie dough, shopping on Columbus.

  This break,

  me, Dylan, Chloe

  spend lots of time

  getting rocked:

  smoking pot on the Big Rock,

  listening to Phish at Dylan’s house,

  the music taking us up,

  we laugh so hard I can almost forget who I am.

  Sometimes Chloe locks herself in the bathroom,

  only lets me in,

  I listen to her problems,

  then ask her questions

  about movies and music.

  She says I’m the only one

  who knows how to calm her down.

  Chloe doesn’t know that helping her

  with her problems

  is the only way to forget my own.

  EVERY TRIANGLED SIDE

  I.

  I bump into James

  in the elevator,

  haven’t seen him since

  walking in on him and Dad.

  My throat swells.

  I can’t look at him without remembering him naked.

  I look down.

  Notice he’s bringing up our ornament boxes

  from the storage space in the basement.

  Four boxes stacked around him.

  I don’t ask questions, but he explains quickly

  that Dad wasn’t feeling well again,

  Mom had a big project,

  Dad asked if he could buy the tree,

  bring the boxes up.

  I don’t offer to help.

  II.

  Dad lying on the couch,

  says what James has already told me.

  I tell him I don’t need James’s help,

  Dad says he didn’t know if I’d be around.

  He sounds hurt, speaks in a voice

  that leaves me with no right

  to question.

  III.

  Later, everyone home,

  Mom puts on a Christmas CD.

  April puts a wreath on her head,

  helps James hang the lights.

  April seems unfazed by this new “family.”

  I pretend to look through the boxes.

  Blue glass balls that Mom made,

  store-bought reds, greens and golds,

  a peeled-nosed Rudolph,

  a broken-hatted Frosty.

  ’Tis the season to be jolly!

  Bing Crosby croons.

  I pull a white unicorn with a red saddle from the box.

  The smell of pine drifts

  as they turn the tree into a blinking sky.

  They all sing “Silent Night,”

  I snap off the creature’s horn.

  Pocket it.

  Tell them I still need to buy gifts.

  Float out the door.

  IV.

  On the street,

  smoke a red I bummed from Chloe.

  Fairy bells jingle as I enter Celestial Treasures.

  Dark Side of the Moon on low as a whisper.

  I walk over to the crystals:

  a shelf of tiny violet cities,

  walls of windows,

  every triangled side, a light.

  I palm one that looks like the skyline.

  For a minute I think about getting it for Dad.

  Then I remember what I walked out on:

  Mom. Dad. April. James.

  Together. Playing perfect family.

  I go to the earrings,

  pick out some star studs, for April.

  Gloria is folding tapestries.

  Asks me how my sister’s doing,

  asks with some concern,

  I say fine (as always).

  Wonder why she cares so much.

  After I pay, on my way out,

  I pull the horn out of my pocket;

  bury i
t in the folds of the window display

  before I scurry away.

  HUBBLE’S LAW

  Adam, back from Jamaica,

  left me something in the lobby:

  a seashell barrette, a note.

  In my room I read:

  Sorry for how I acted last time.

  Hope to see you next time I’m home.

  The shells are so shiny,

  like they’re still

  underwater.

  I reread his note.

  Feel seasick. Confused.

  Not sure what he wants

  from me, what I want

  from him.

  My bedroom phone rings.

  Dylan says he’s got Phish tickets for New Year’s.

  In Massachusetts.

  Dad and Mom, together, on the couch.

  He’s reading I, Claudius,

  she’s got her glasses on, tongue on lip,

  drawing plans for her new glass animal farm.

  I don’t ask them if I can go to a concert

  or on a trip with friends.

  Not wanting a fight, not wanting a no,

  just ask if I can go to Chloe’s for New Year’s.

  Mom leans into his shoulder,

  Dad nods his head, yes,

  okay, I can go.

  For a minute they look like the figures from my drawing,

  perfect, average, normal,

  lying, folded, under my pillow.

  For a minute, I think about grabbing April,

  sitting with them.

  But then I remember Hubble’s Law:

  The closer a galaxy is to us,

  the faster it’s moving away.

  I can’t be part of a family

  that’s built on lies,

  they think they can pull me closer,

  now that things are out in the open,

  but

  I’ve already

  drifted

  away.

  OUT TO SEA

  I.

  We take Chloe’s nonna’s Volvo.

  Listen to “Sample in a Jar”

  fifteen times in a row.

  The farther we drive, the more I forget

  my parents don’t know where I am.

  I forget if I even care.

  We land on Planet Phish:

  looks like the 1976 yearbook:

  girls in patchwork skirts,

  guys in bell-bottoms,

  hemp necklaces and grilled cheese for sale,

  pot and sweat and patchouli.

  We move with the crowd into the indoor arena.

  In the hallway,

  two girls,

  one naked except for overalls,

  another in

  white-blond dreads,

  sell a pink-patched dress

  with a pocket gem that shines—

  a beaded silver moon.

  Immediately my plain clothes feel wrong.

  I nod my head to the dress,

  shed my jeans and sweater.

  II.

  During “Run Like an Antelope,” we herd through aisles—

  bubble gum smoke pours

  on us

  pink and yellow balloons

  rain down

  a guy in a ponytail leads me in a wild

  do-si-do

  swinging me by the arm,

  then comes “Auld Lang Syne.”

  We slow dance.

  Ponytail leads me to a corner,

  kissing, swimming me into the wall,

  his spindly, tattooed arms wrapping me.

  I think about Adam for a minute, and who he’s kissing.

  Ponytail strokes my back,

  his cheek scrubbing mine.

  He whispers Happy New Year in my ear,

  fingers my dress strap,

  edges his fingers down,

  traces the pocket moon.

  He asks where I came from,

  I think about lying, saying Larchmont or Long Island.

  But I tell him the truth.

  He says he’s heard kids grow up fast

  in New York City.

  I guess they do.

  I pull Ponytail into a darker space

  behind the bleachers, let him touch me

  where he wants, and I touch him too.

  Because that’s what New York City kids do.

  I float away—

  until “Down with Disease” shouts me awake.

  My body pulses

  in disgrace at this stranger’s touch.

  I push away Ponytail,

  who calls me a tease.

  Search for Chloe and Dylan.

  My heart beats faster,

  my feet quicken

  to the frenzy of the music,

  building, like gliding under the biggest waves,

  water sliding over my back.

  When I find my friends,

  we dance like we’re on fire,

  holding hands, jumping waves of flame,

  focus on my own breath,

  breathe in sweet smoke

  fast as fire

  slow as

  water.

  AS THE CITY LOOMS

  Next morning, still in my dress,

  smelling of pot, bubble gum smoke

  and that gross guy.

  On the drive home,

  Chloe and Dylan talk

  about being Second Semester Seniors,

  Chloe sending in her art school application.

  My applications still crowd my desk.

  I’ll do them today, I think. For three schools.

  All away from the city.

  The highway runs

  gray and long—

  Dylan yawns, says he’s sleepy.

  Chloe puts on Nirvana.

  Close my eyes too, try not to think of

  Ponytail’s quick hands.

  I dream:

  We’re young. April and I, the carousel.

  I’m counting the clown faces that go by,

  trying to predict which will come next,

  it’s hard, their hair keeps changing colors,

  but Daddy’s there. He waves each time we pass.

  Except for the last time—

  it’s like we came too quickly

  or he forgot.

  I see him before he sees me:

  his limbs start disappearing,

  I yell for him,

  but my horse passes by.

  When I wake up,

  I don’t know where I am.

  Then everything rushes back in.

  Dad, James,

  what a marriage means

  when it’s “open.”

  How they tried to keep it

  closed.

  Hidden from us.

  The city looms,

  I want to grab the wheel,

  turn the car, drive the other way,

  away from this place,

  what I used to call

  home.

  STORM HALO

  I glance at the halo around the sun

  before I go in the lobby.

  Mr. Lamb said they

  can be warnings: storm moving in.

  But the sky is otherwise clear.

  At the front door,

  turn the key,

  no one comes to greet me.

  Finally:

  empty house,

  no one to tell me lies,

  make pretend.

  Head straight

 
; to the bathroom

  to wash away

  Ponytail’s prints.

  Open the door—

  I am not alone.

  I see a figure crouched in the corner

  of the shower,

  faucet just dripping.

  A hunched body

  shivering in the water’s pool.

  Dad.

  STARS FALLING

  I freeze.

  Two thoughts fight to win

  a battle in my brain—

  he’s naked

  he needs help.

  Unfreeze.

  Grab a towel.

  His body has become so thin.

  Ribs sunken in.

  Not like the dad I’ve known.

  Dizzy, stars fall in front of my eyes,

  he manages a weak thank you,

  I wrap him in the towel.

  Hunching over him,

  my feet wet,

  I see his skeletal body.

  Pause.

  A deep breath in,

  I pull him up.

  BLANKETS

  I guide him to bed,

  still in his towel,

  tuck him under the comforter,

  he mumbles sorry.

  Before I can tell him it’s okay,

  he’s asleep.

  I linger for a minute,

  standing over his

  thinning hair

  sunken-in ribs

  covered now

  but still there.

  TUNNELING

  I leave.

  Breathe heavy.

  Dad.

  Something’s wrong.

  Cross the avenues.

  I think about the past few months,

  him weak, more tired,

  coughing,

  up all night

  sick.

  Pick up speed.

  Race across the street.

  Down the subway stairs.

  Catch the 9 downtown.

  Right there in front of me

  neon colors:

  an advertisement.

  Keith Haring cartoons dancing,

  telling people to practice safe sex.

  I cling to the silver pole.

  The train rocks me.

  Condoms in the nurse’s office now.

  Next stop: 72nd Street.

  Red ribbons.

  I turn from Keith Haring’s drawing.

  Another train passes.

  Slices of other people’s faces.

  59th Street.

  Articles in People magazine.

  Fathers denying dying sons, rock and rollers falling from stardom.

  Refusing to sit on toilet seats,

  take sips from other people’s glasses.