Skyscraping

by Cordelia Jensen

  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.