Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,14
her eyes look bloodshot.
Hands, wringing.
Tells me she was up too late
with some new guy.
She lights a cigarette, relaxes a bit.
Peering into her leftover mascara-smeared eyes,
it looks like she’s
coming apart,
like everything else.
I open my mouth to tell her but
the words stick
to the sides of my throat.
In the space between she whispers
a secret:
Dylan told her that he likes me likes me.
I ask her if she’s kidding,
ask why she’s saying like,
as if we’re sixth graders.
She slaps my shoulder,
I slap hers back,
send her cig flying,
burying itself—
like all our secrets—
in the old black snow.
WINTER’S GLAZE
In Peer Mentorship,
the theme is bullying.
One girl apologizes to another
for writing “Slut” on her locker
in seventh grade,
another says girls can get away with
bullying because they don’t punch,
they just throw words or
give the cold shoulder—
ignore.
My coleader Michael turns to me
like I should have something to say,
some advice to give,
but everything I can think of
is a cliché.
So I pick one,
mutter it.
I tune them out,
look outside,
windows wiped with winter’s glaze,
count the floating spots,
till it’s all just one big haze.
CHAOS
Later,
the Yearbook advisor finds me in the hallway.
Says we need to talk,
practically drags me to her office.
Says that she knows about the field day collage,
that the rest of the staff met the sports pages deadline,
that they’re taking care of all the Senior pages,
she asks me what’s going on,
if I care about Yearbook anymore.
My heart aches looking at
the old yearbooks,
the stacks of layout sheets.
But I tell her the truth:
What’s the point of celebrating all this
if things can change so quickly—
She says
this is my one warning,
if I don’t start showing leadership,
I will be asked to step down from my position.
She leaves me in the room,
alone,
and I toss all the layouts onto the floor.
There’s no order in space;
only
chaos.
THOUGHTS ORBIT
I.
Dylan finds me around the corner with Chloe,
hands me something wrapped in newspaper.
Happy Valentine’s Day scribbled in Sharpie.
I open it: a joint
and a Phish bootleg from New Year’s.
II.
Home,
click in the tape,
remember last Valentine’s Day,
Adam took me to J. G. Melon for dinner,
bought me yellow roses.
Wonder if maybe he could be there for me now.
I call Adam and say
my dad is sick
to a ring that no one answers.
III.
Lock myself in the bathroom,
light a candle,
take two puffs from the joint.
Thoughts orbit
until I settle on one:
Call Dylan,
ask him to cut out early
from school
tomorrow.
BARELY SWERVING
Streets covered in snow.
Dylan says we should ski down the West Side.
The ultimate cutting.
We jet after Astro.
On the bus he says
he feels like something is up with me,
that he’s here if I need to talk,
I’ve always been such a good listener,
he holds my hand.
His fingers are cold and bony.
I tell him I don’t want to talk—
just ski.
He says sometimes not talking
is better anyway.
He squeezes my hand again.
Like I’m going to make out with him or something.
We clip our boots into our skis,
use our poles to navigate city blocks.
A station wagon stops short.
I barely swerve around it.
He grabs my elbow, cheeks red
as his winter jacket.
Snow stuck to his hair, peeking out of
his woolly hat.
Tells me I need to be careful.
I tell him actually he does,
throw a snowball at his head.
I think about playing tag with him at recess,
how he would always let me win.
For a minute,
I almost tell him the truth.
But the light flicks
from red to green,
I go,
touch his shoulder,
say you’re it.
We ski down the West Side,
not thinking about the school I’m missing,
Yearbook, my parents, my sister,
just move across the city
as the snow falls
blurring the beige lines
of every
single
standing
building.
SOLAR FLARE
Mom, Dad, the couch,
Dad says the school called.
Where have you been?
I ask him Why does it matter?
I’m a Second Semester Senior,
who cares what I do?
He asks what’s happened to me.
Who am I?
I say I could ask the same of him.
Mom pats his knee, strokes his hair.
Tells me not to walk away.
I laugh, tell her she’s one to talk.
I pass April drawing a sign in her room:
SILENCE = DEATH
it says.
I slam my bedroom door with a flash,
a solar flare
burning on
the surface of the sun.
HOT WATER
Next morning,
James in the kitchen,
white rice in a red pot.
He smells like cigarettes,
black hair sticking up.
I grab a bowl.
Life cereal.
A spoon.
He says I’ve got a birthday coming up,
asks if I want any rice.
I roll my eyes.
Who eats rice for breakfast?
He says he’s making it for Dad.
Mom had to work,
Dad’s been up all night,
in the bathroom.
Dad used to hold my hair back
when I was sick.
Now James is up all night with him.
I pour the milk.
Tell James he doesn’t need to take care of Dad.
He says he wants to, he loves him too.
I don’t give him a chance to say more,
just throw my spoon,
full bowl,
into the sink.
Rice boils over as I leave.
DIZZYING ME
A