The moon’s still a crescent,
soon it will be new.
Adam asks if I want to go to the gem room,
teasing me, we kissed there once,
he said I had lapis eyes.
I start to tell him
things have been really hard.
I want to talk
but—
He stops me then, kisses me,
takes a second too long for our lips to align.
Says
he’s sorry,
he has felt bad
about that winter night.
Says
he wants another chance,
he’ll be home for the summer.
I pull away.
But I can’t find the words for:
My broken family.
My dying father.
Can’t find a way to tell Adam that:
I almost destroyed the yearbook.
They kicked me out.
His knee shakes,
eyes flit to a girl
across the street.
Instead of any of those truths,
I say the only thing that wants to come—
Ask Adam if he’ll be my date to prom.
He kisses me again, harder, rough,
presses my back into the steps,
says yes.
TO FIND THE SKY
That evening, I go to Adam’s.
Mom says okay even though it’s a school night.
Feathered sunset clouds float me down
the city streets.
Says his parents are gone,
leads me to his room.
He used to be my North Star.
Always there,
giving direction.
Lighting me up.
Now when he kisses me
it feels all wrong.
I tell him
we need to talk,
I’ve been keeping something from him.
He nods.
I tell him
I’m no longer editor
of the yearbook.
His brow folds in confusion,
considering my words.
I tell him how stressful Senior year has been.
It was too much,
I had to let something go.
He says that doesn’t sound like the Mira he knows.
I nod my head,
tell him I’ve changed a bit.
One truth at a time.
Then he smiles at me,
says he’s glad I told him.
Says he feels like he’s changed too.
College is harder than he thought it would be.
We lie down together.
Eyes locked.
Our bodies move together.
This time, I’m ready.
Adam slides the condom on,
says he loves me.
A siren wails outside.
A phone rings.
I breathe in his Tide sheets.
Stretch my neck to find
the sky,
those feather clouds.
Look into his eyes, my past,
let him sink
all the way in.
SO MUCH LIGHTER
Sex hurt just a little
but it was also so short,
hard to imagine
why I waited so long
for something that
felt so much lighter
than the weight
it carries.
INNER-DISTANCE
Staring now
into Adam’s eyes,
I know this is it.
As close as we are now,
there’s an inner-distance
where my truth should fit.
My naked body curls into his.
His arms big, circling me.
I tell him I wasn’t
being completely honest before.
He says okay,
uneasily.
I tell him:
I got kicked out of Yearbook.
Stopped doing my job,
my world
turned upside down,
what was important before
didn’t seem that way
anymore.
I tell him:
My dad has AIDS. He’s dying.
He moves his arm out
from underneath me.
Asks if he had a transfusion
or something.
I tell him no—
my parents have an open marriage.
They both have lovers, men, women.
He asks
what the hell is an open marriage,
stands up, backs away,
says isn’t that a contradiction in terms.
I cover myself with a sheet.
He puts his underwear on.
Says that’s crazy.
A sprinkle of his spit lands on my cheek.
I wipe it away.
Look at myself in his spotless mirror,
cheeks flushed, hair messy.
He says:
I can’t believe you kept this from me.
All this time, and—
I can’t trust you, Mira.
Asks how I could let us be intimate, without telling him.
I say I don’t have it,
he doesn’t have to be scared.
He says he’s not scared.
He’s disgusted.
That AIDS is a deserved disease.
Something people bring on themselves.
I get up,
dress quickly.
Ask how dare he say that about my dad.
He tells me I should get out of his room.
Tells me I can forget about prom.
I can forget about him.
I can still feel him inside of me
as he pulls his sheets off his bed.
I tell him I’m sorry
for hiding the truth,
but it wasn’t like he’d been there for me.
And he doesn’t have to be so nasty.
I’m still me.
He asks me how dare I say that,
I’m the one who betrayed him,
whoever I am
is someone he doesn’t recognize.
CRASH
I don’t wait for the elevator,
I fly down flights of stairs,
almost crash into Adam’s parents in the lobby.
Adam’s mother,
caramel bob,
coral nails,
his dad in a suit.
They kiss me on the cheek,
tell me they hope to see more of me.
I kiss them back blindly,
thunder booms outside.
Feather clouds swallowed
by a crashing, storming sky.
STRANDED
The
North
Star
may
be
constant
but
it
is
still
four
hundred
and
thirty
light
years
away
from
those
floating
lost
and
stranded
here
on
Earth.
DRENCHED
I walk the blocks,
rain drenching my hair, my clothes
; down to my underwear,
I think I remember
knowing this boy,
that he was someone
who made me feel safe.
That he was someone
I so often agreed with.
Now he is someone
who has shamed me.
Shamed my family.
I walk the streets,
trying to remember,
block by block,
drop by drop,
who I am.
SOAKING
Soaking wet, I arrive home.
Mom asks if I’m okay,
I lie, say yes, thanks,
pour myself into a hot bath.
Scrub until I can no longer
feel
Adam’s touch
or
words.
OUT MY WINDOW
Next day, wake up,
don’t want to waste energy, time
on Adam, who obviously
doesn’t love, respect me.
Doesn’t know anything about my father.
I will Adam’s words to
float out of me,
out my window,
sink all the way down
to the bottom
of the Hudson.
Where they belong.
WHAT WE ARE MADE OF
Before school, Mom takes us to get TB tests
to make sure we didn’t catch it
from breathing in Dad, orbiting his space.
The doctor gives us a sheet, what to watch for,
what could grow.
I wonder how scared Dad was when he had his HIV test,
long ago.
Wonder who went with him. Mom. James.
Or if he went alone.
April and I clutch hands,
hold each other up as we
breathe deep,
lock arms,
march in.
I enter Astro late,
Mr. Lamb’s talking about Carl Sagan.
A quote of his on the board, underlined:
We are made of star stuff.
Mr. Lamb goes on to say, whether or not any of us believe
in something spiritual, we are connected,
we all share matter.
I slide in next to Dylan.
Write him a note:
Is this astronomy or philosophy?
He writes same thing,
asks how I’ve been.
Look down at my injection site, so far nothing’s grown.
Shrug, not sure what to say. Thoughts of Adam come too close.
Look at Dylan, push them away.
Write a note to Chloe,
an apology for ditching her for Adam.
Draw Dylan a doodle of a girl,
me,
floating above it all,
head shaped like a star.
He takes my pen,
transforms my star
into a heart.
A BOMBARDMENT
Spot Chloe down the hall,
walk toward her,
note in hand
pass it over
till the school psychologist
gets in my face.
Blocks my path.
A bombardment.
You’re spending your free period with me,
she commands,
drags me to her room,
down a tunnel, second floor.
Says Mom called,
told her how sick Dad is.
I fold one hand into another,
don’t look at her.
In my head
I curl up into a ball.
Spin fast through the sky.
Feel the wind in my eyes.
Focus on the veins in my hands.
Intersecting highways.
Wish I could ride them
away from here.
She asks if I’m listening.
I nod, find a split end. Pick it.
Her volume increases,
tells me she can’t force me to talk about it.
But she knows, from experience, that being honest
and open with people, no matter what you’re feeling,
can make a difference. Make things better.
I don’t say anything—
wasn’t I honest, open with Adam?
That made things worse.
I focus on my fingernails now,
how fast they keep growing.
Can’t stop time from changing anything,
bit by bit, cell by cell.
Can’t stop time from flying.
She finally lets me go, a last plea,
that she’s here
if I need her.
Before I go,
think of Dad,
will myself
to stop and
look up
into her eyes,
surprised
to find some kindness
floating in them.
I
take a deep breath and
ask—
tears unexpectedly forming
in the corners of my eyes—
if when I’m gone
she’ll be here
something
suspended, strong
able to help
my sister.
WHAT THEY THINK
I.
Almost two days since the test,
three since Adam freaked out on me,
and since I lost my virginity.
At least none of us have shown any sign of TB,
wonder what James’s skin would show,
wonder if he’s sick.
After school,
we sit in the waiting room,
the nurse wheels Dad
down the hall.
Tall, blond,
all cheekbones,
clothes hang off him.
Two lesions on his forehead.
A disease that hides,
then eats people alive.
We follow behind,
past a child with a broken leg,
a pregnant woman breathing loudly.
II.
Outside.
Several empty cabs pass us by.
Do they see the lesions? Are they scared?
One stops.
I wonder,
does the driver care that Dad’s here,
breathing, in his space?
III.
We struggle into the lobby,
James holding up one side of Dad,
Mom, the other.
We share the elevator
with the woman from 14B.
She doesn’t look at Dad.
Doesn’t look at his lesions
or his skinny, bruised arms,
the way he cannot hold himself up.
She ignores all of us.
Finally, home.
Dad looks at his nightstand,
scattered with crystals—
blinking hopes of healing—
his own shelf of tiny purple cities.
Says okay, he’ll try the herbs.
Relief and fear
pulse through my veins.
April smiles wide.
Mom tells us nice work, they’re beautiful,
fetches Dad tissues for his coughing,
James rests in the reading chair,
Dad lays down to sleep.
<
br /> HOW MUCH TIME
WANING GIBBOUS MOON, 20 DAYS LEFT
Next day, in the cafeteria,
pick at a bagel, Chloe and Dylan
at the diner together.
I would’ve gone too
if I could find the courage to tell them:
My dad is really sick.
He has less than
three weeks left.
I take deep breaths,
eat small bites,
don’t think about how much time I’ve wasted
hurting rather than helping.
After school, after Peer Mentorship,
Gloria’s coming.
After school, a plan.
Focus in on Dad,
while there’s time.
CONSUMING
Dad, head in Mom’s lap,
her reading The Byzantine Empire aloud.
She’s got tissues, water glass, pill.
April and Gloria come in together,
we all gather round.
Gloria says TB
used to be called consumption,
it consumed from within.
Says we need to strengthen the body,
the lungs specifically,
thank goodness, she says,
Dad doesn’t have pneumonia too.
She says he needs more vitamin D
to help slow the progression of KS,
acupuncture can help with that too.
I take notes as she speaks.
She pulls out more bottles:
Astragalus. Mint. Green tea.
Then: bananas, oranges, pineapple juice.
Dad raises his eyebrows,
we catch a smile between us,
a New Age Mary Poppins,
Gloria with her big black bag of remedies.
She asks if we’ve ever
heard of custard apple,
breaks open a green pale bumpy fruit
with her hands.
Tells April to fetch a spoon for Dad.
As he tries this strange fruit, the herbs, the juice,
I wonder if we can stop time from consuming him,
consuming us.
I wonder if we try hard enough,
we can stop time
from flying.
THE HOURGLASS
Days march on
grains mount
pills swallowed
breathe in
out
tick
tock
try to slow
the falling
sands.
BLUESHIFT
Mr. Lamb says a blueshift means
that an object is moving toward
the observer.
Skyscraping Page 9
