city I’m ready to leave behind.
I pause
in front of the post office,
packages thick with the
weight of my lies,
experiences I never had,
hoping to earn a spot of peace
far away from here.
As I mail them,
the snow falls heavy,
the sky, darker.
TWO CLOUDS INTERSECTED
Back in the apartment,
empty-handed, jacket wet.
For a minute, excited to tell the old Dad,
I did it, it’s done.
I’m greeted by quiet:
see them together
again.
This time
out in the open,
sleeping
on the living room couch.
James’s arm tucked around Dad’s back
cuddling,
their heads nestled together
like two clouds intersected.
I swallow a cry and like the
snow
I
fall and melt
away.
NORTHERN LIGHTS
Later that night,
I spy a new glass bird
perched on the coffee table.
I touch its thin wings,
trace the bright green swirls.
So light, smooth, cool
in my palm.
Mom emerges from the kitchen,
smiling, seeing me holding the bird.
Said she made it
for my future dorm room.
Colored it to look like
the Northern Lights.
I feel myself turn hollow,
holding this flightless bird.
I set it down.
Hard. Make it tremble.
Every day, she makes those animals
so delicately,
purposefully,
every day, adding distance and fractures
to our already broken family.
I ask Mom if she ever gets jealous of
what Dad has with James.
Tears shimmer in her hazel eyes.
But I keep going:
ask her why they even stayed married,
why she and Dad ever had kids.
I don’t wait for answers,
just leave her there,
flightless,
with that bird.
BLIZZARD
All night, snow.
Open the window,
stretch my arms out.
Keep my eyes open
in the white, whipping wind.
There are few cars on the highway.
The river’s frozen in places.
In a city that never stops,
I can hardly hear anything.
For tonight, the city gives me
what I need.
FLIPPED
Chloe calls,
asks if I’ll ever get ungrounded.
I say who knows,
maybe I could sneak out anyway.
She tells me
wait it out, don’t make it worse.
Now she’s the one with advice.
I hang up.
The world has flipped.
Next, April comes in my room,
says Dad will let me go to the movies,
but only with her.
Asks if I want to hit the closet,
wear funny old coats and hats of Mom’s.
I tell her no, grab an umbrella.
At the theater,
nothing’s worth seeing,
or the times are all wrong.
Instead, we sip too-cold hot chocolates at Cafe 82,
watch a family eat cheeseburgers,
kids play tic-tac-toe, parents plan spring break.
On the way home,
April says she heard me fighting with Mom.
That she’s trying to help him, us.
I tell her I’m not going to pretend
that Mom’s been here all along,
when she hasn’t.
April stops me,
the freezing rain battling us,
says we can’t keep fighting
like this, who knows how much time we have left.
Tells me Gloria says
we need to shine light on our secrets,
it will help us heal.
Before I can say I don’t know how,
the wind picks up,
turns my umbrella inside out.
RECORDING SESSION
February
SESSION FIVE
Last three questions. I want to wrap this up today.
All right.
Question ten:
What does empowerment mean to you?
(Pause)
It means finding your own strength . . . and then using it in ways that make you and the people around you stronger.
Eleven: How do you approach the unknown?
(Coughs)
I used to be braver. Now—I’m more—cautious.
That’s ironic.
Twelve: When is it okay to break the rules?
When your heart tells you the rules are dysfunctional.
Bullshit.
Did your heart tell you the rules of marriage are dysfunctional? Did it tell you to lie to your children?
Stop the tape, Miranda.
No. I’ve done nothing but listen to you for years. And the whole time you’ve been lying to me.
Things are more complicated than you realize. Love is a tricky thing.
Please stop the tape. Take a deep breath.
No.
Miranda, I know you’re upset. We all are.
But you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep pushing people away and shutting them out.
Time’s up.
HIS PUNK ROCK FACE
I stop the tape, walk away,
shout that I’m going out.
Footsteps follow me to the door.
Not Dad.
Not Mom.
James comes from around the corner.
His silver eyebrow ring. His blue-black hair.
He tells me he heard our session,
that I’ve upset Dad.
That I need to let people in. They need me.
I should try to be there more for my family.
My insides burn.
I say
Why do they need me
when you’re doing a great job for all of us?
He’s not done talking,
but I shut the door in his punk rock face.
THE SPACE BETWEEN
The crosstown bus,
hanging on to the metal bar,
a man with an upside-down newspaper
whistling “My Girl,”
winding through Central Park,
trees heavy with snow,
I wonder
how many people,
like Sam, the homeless man,
are living outside tonight,
what’s happened
to the man with AIDS in the park,
if James is telling Dad I walked out on him,
if Dad defends me, or whether he says
something to Mom.
Off the bus, wet toes sting numb
from the walk down Lex,
all the way to Chloe’s place.
We sit on the fire escape.
The whole way here
I planned to tell her
everything.
But