The larger the blueshift,
the faster the object is moving.
Time is only speeding up.
The principal and I have
a disciplinary check-in.
When I get there, it isn’t just her—
Mom’s there
in a dark blue suit,
pen and notepad ready,
like she’s auditioning
for the role of a sitcom mom.
The principal says
according to teachers
I’ve been coming to class,
turning in homework,
I seem to be back on track.
Mom apologizes for my past behavior,
says that this year’s been stressful,
that Dad’s been given very little time.
I tell the principal that she doesn’t have to worry,
that I know life is precious,
I want a future I can be proud of.
The principal shakes my hand,
says she’s glad to have me back,
hopes my dad gets stronger soon.
I look at Mom, who smirks a little,
both of us wondering what part of
very little time
the principal doesn’t understand.
Mom, in blue, comes closer still
like she wants to hug me goodbye.
I let her touch my shoulder,
wonder if someday soon
I’ll feel like moving closer.
BECAUSE THE PEOPLE INSIDE IT ARE
That night Mom, still in her suit,
asks if she can come in,
sits on my bed.
I shrug. Turn a bit in my windowseat.
She says she wants to tell me something:
She didn’t only go to Italy for work,
she left because Dad fell so hard for James,
she didn’t know how to exist
on the periphery of their love.
She says Italy was amazing, she learned
more during that year abroad than she had in her
whole life as an artist. But when she got
that call from Dad
she gave it all up.
I came home when he got sick.
I came home because he needed me.
Then I knew, someday, we’d be sitting here.
Counting time.
I look at her.
I came back to be with you.
To be with your sister.
As a family.
She says she’s sorry for how much she missed that year.
And all the other times she hasn’t been around.
I ask her if April knows the truth,
she says she will talk to her too.
I used to imagine she saw us as a train
she could ride at will,
instead of a station,
fixed, every day.
I wonder now if maybe
a family is neither of those things
but something stable,
yet always changing,
because the people inside it are.
I move from the windowseat.
Don’t hug her or thank her,
but I do ask her
where on earth
she found that suit.
She laughs.
After she leaves,
I find the buried broken fish
in the bottom of my closet—
carry the pieces to the bathroom sink,
wash them one by one,
lay them gently
to dry
on the ledge.
CONNECT FOUR
LAST QUARTER MOON, 18 DAYS LEFT
Dylan calls,
he misses me,
can he come over.
So little time left
before school is over.
I take a breath,
say okay.
When he arrives,
I try to walk him straight to my room
but he stops—
looks around—
touches every piece of art:
Dad’s masks,
Mom’s glass creatures,
says my parents are
sort of geniuses.
Dad calls out, asks who’s here,
tells us to come say hi.
I pause.
Dylan smiles at me
sideways.
We plunk down the two steps to the living room.
James there too.
For now,
another day,
another round of chess.
Dylan says
he likes James’s Alice in Chains shirt,
Dad asks Dylan about college.
I watch Dylan’s eyes
scan Dad’s hollowed face,
his hair sticking up,
small lesion scabbing his mouth.
Steer Dylan to my room,
we pull out Connect Four.
I’m red. Dylan’s black.
About to put my first piece in—
he blocks my hand, holds it,
says Mira, I’m so sorry.
Why didn’t you tell us?
I say I didn’t know how.
Then I say to myself, as much as to Dylan:
The HIV’s progressed to full-blown AIDS.
He’s dying.
Tears in his eyes,
Dylan says I know,
he has a cousin
who has it too.
I tell him I’m sorry.
Suck in my breath.
Tell him my parents
have an open marriage.
He nods.
Tell him Adam
thinks it’s all disgusting.
Dylan says
Adam’s a jackass.
We play the game,
drop
pieces in.
As the chips fall and land,
truth fills the space between us,
and, one by one,
red over black under red,
my heart lifts a little,
we both win.
SPRING WIND
Need to find Chloe,
need to tell her the truth.
But the school lobby’s mobbed,
kids crying, hugging—
Chloe at their nucleus,
crying the hardest.
Dylan next to her, pale, dark-circled eyes.
I ask him what’s going on.
He says Kurt Cobain’s dead.
Chloe reaches for me.
Pours into my arms.
Walks with her head
bent on my shoulder.
Spring wind goosebumps our arms,
sun peeks out from behind buildings.
I lead her to a stoop.
She says she can’t believe
he’s dead, through
gasping breaths.
She was obsessed with him.
I’m tempted to hide my truth again,
focus on Chloe’s pain,
so sad about this rock star
she’s never met.
But I can’t—
Chloe, I need to tell you something,
grab her hand.
My dad’s HIV has turned into full-blown AIDS.
He was given a month to live.
Today is day 15.
She stops crying right away.
Wipes tears with the back of her hand.
She says
oh my god, I’m so sorry.
Holds me in a hug.
<
br /> I tell her I’m sorry
for keeping everything from her.
I didn’t know
how else to deal.
I also tell her about Adam.
How hateful he was
just after
I lost my virginity to him.
I ask her if she thinks I’m a liar.
She doesn’t answer,
just says:
she loves me
for who I am.
SPROUTS FROM SKELETON TREES
At home, Dad’s eyes bright,
he’s in the kitchen,
warming soup.
I tell him about Kurt Cobain,
he shakes his head, sits.
Mom and April, in the living room,
practicing lines for the spring play.
Feeling lighter,
after confessing everything
to Dylan, Chloe.
I stick my head out the window,
a breath before I start my homework.
Even though it’s chilly,
faces of green leaves poke out,
sprouts from skeleton trees.
PINK WAKE
WANING CRESCENT MOON, 14 DAYS LEFT
Dylan, April and I walk through the park,
the sun, full and pink,
they chatter about the AIDS Walk,
how they can’t wait to be part of it,
my heart sinks a little,
thinking about May.
How can they look forward
to walking with other people
when Dad might not be alive?
Would he even want us to walk?
Show our pride?
Is he proud?
When April and I come through the door,
Dad’s smile couldn’t be bigger—
his face looks almost round.
Three envelopes in his hands:
Kenyon, Bowdoin, Dickinson.
We tear them open together,
like kids at a birthday party.
Everything else fades away
Dad beams
the sun sets
leaving a wake of bright pink
in the silvery spring sky.
BUT, FOR A WHILE
We toast
me
Dad
April
Mom
with Geneva cookies,
ginger ale,
custard apple.
Celebrate my acceptances to
Kenyon
Dickinson
(wait-listed at Bowdoin).
A year ago
I would’ve been devastated by a wait list,
but not now,
only joy.
Grace even put in a note,
she saw a meteor shower,
hopes I choose Dickinson.
We celebrate with a game,
the four of us, a family.
Chinese checkers:
April’s green.
Mom, red.
I choose blue.
Dad, white.
The board, a star.
None of us say much during the game,
marching pieces from our individual sides,
but for a while
we are all jumbled up,
jumping over each other to get to new spots,
until we settle back in
rearranged but connected.
EXOPLANET
It’s been a month and a half since
I was kicked out of Yearbook.
I still have a key but
it doesn’t feel like my space
anymore.
Knock on the door,
ask the advisor
if I can talk to her
in the hall.
She says they’re trying to make their last deadline,
which is tomorrow.
Deep breath,
tick,
exhale,
tock.
Mr. Lamb says
there are exoplanets that orbit
stars in systems they are not a part of.
Force their way in.
I say I’m sorry
I couldn’t be
the leader I wanted to be,
the leader she hoped I would be.
Say I’d like to help now,
if I can.
She tells me it isn’t her
I need to apologize to—
lets me past her
into the room.
I apologize to the staff,
tell them I cut up
their field day collage,
almost ruined the yearbook.
I thank them for doing my work for me.
Ask if I can help today,
their last day.
They all look at each other,
look at me.
Ask why I stopped caring,
say they respected me.
I tell them I’ve been having problems at home,
maybe they’ve heard.
Tell them I would really like to contribute.
They pull out a layout sheet,
let me in.
The last of the Senior pages—
I draw boxes,
label photos.
Easy
but it feels good,
I do it quickly,
the ruler
cool and smooth,
something solid
beneath my thumb.
LIKE LIGHTNING
Saturday,
April and James volunteering at the GMHC.
Mom at the studio.
It’s just me and Dad.
His energy’s high,
laughs like lightning,
almost like a hyper child,
just me taking care of him.
Hand him his daily herbs and pineapple juice,
he makes a face but gulps them down.
I ask him if he’s up
for a drive.
RAIN ON THE DASH
Slide into the driver’s seat,
hands at 10 and 2.
Adam tried to teach me,
Dad too.
But the rushing traffic,
joggers with strollers,
weaving bikers,
learning to drive in the busiest city in the world?
No thanks.
Here we are,
back again,
me shaking
behind the wheel of a car.
Turn the key slowly.
Dad in the seat next to me.
I put on the blinker,
pull out into the street.
It starts to drizzle,
raindrops fall slowly
into each other,
taking their time.
Others run quick.
Dad says learning to drive
in inclement weather is essential.
Focus my whole self on the road.
For him, for me.
This time it’s not as scary as I remembered.
I glide up 96th Street.
Roll back down to 79th.
Do one exit on the highway.
Though my right turns are a bit wide,
my braking a bit slow,
Dad says much improved, good job,
we’ll do it again soon.
I hear his voice catch,
soften,
wobble,
like a drop sliding down the dash.
My view now obstructed by more than just the rain.
REC
ORDING SESSION
April
SESSION SEVEN
Okay, Dad, I want to ask you some more general questions about all of us.
What do you love about April?
Her playfulness. Her openness.
Her courage and passion, her soulfulness.
But I worry about her too. Sometimes she feels things really strongly.
Makes her a great actress.
It does.
I worry about her too.
(Pause)
Dad—why did you marry Mom?
(Coughs)
I fell in love with her while watching her work.
Your mom—she has an eye for beauty like no one else I know. A desire to show it to the world.
So you admire her?
I do—of course.
I hope, one day, you will see what I see.
And you know what I love about you, Mira?
No.
Your insightfulness, your perception,
how deeply, and sensitively, you take in the world.
Yeah?
When you were little
you would watch the kids play at the playground
for a while before you joined in.
You didn’t just rush right in,
but you didn’t stand watching forever either.
You did it your own way. When you were comfortable.
I always thought that was smart.
Thanks, Dad.
And there’s another thing that I love.
What’s that?
That you’ve made these.
The recordings?
Yes. That way I can always be with you.
WISHING STAR
NEW MOON, 11 DAYS LEFT
When we were little
April and I used to climb
Dad’s huge body. He would say
girls, I’m not a piece of furniture,
laugh anyway.
Now acupuncture needles slight as whiskers
climb over his wide forehead,
his naked calves,
dry hands.
Mom asks how it feels and he says
some are a quick sting, just a mosquito bite,
others like opening a gaping hole.
Gloria says every time his tummy grumbles,
it means his Chi’s moving, it’s a good sign.
With each grumble,
each dancing needle,
I dare myself to
hope
like a child,
hands crossed
at her windowsill,
eyes locked
on a wishing star.
GLUE, SCISSORS, TAPE
April, in her room,
newspapers, magazines,
glue, scissors, tape
at her side.
Skyscraping Page 10
