Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,16

a blue-checkered gown.

Tubes cometing outward

from his arms.

James stroking Dad’s needled hand,

sobbing,

like this is his darkest white place.

Mom fingers one of her dark curls,

rests her hand on Dad’s shoulder.

He looks up at her, nods.

She looks into his eyes,

tells us the HIV has progressed

to full-blown AIDS—

Dad has contracted TB

and the beginning stages of Kaposi’s sarcoma,

which causes lesions.

He has just a few,

nothing internal.

Dad coughs, reaches up to hold Mom’s hand,

while James, head down, still strokes the other.

Because of all this, they’ve given him

one month to live.

The clock hands spin.

The truth tick-tocks:

school, Dad’s life,

everything’s ending at once.

Dad starts talking but I can’t listen:

All this time I knew things were bad

but he still seemed somewhat stable.

I notice Dad’s toes peeking out

from beneath the hospital blankets

and for the first time I see

a small lesion on the underside

of his pinky.

I try

to escape,

move the bars off the windows

with my mind—

I jump into the cold

weave through countless buildings

dive into other people’s windows

I scrape the sky, scouting for warmer air

fling past rooftops and fly.

SPRING

INDIGO GLASS

A month:

the time it takes

a season to change,

less than half the summer,

the time it takes a baby

to learn day from night.

It’s taken less time than that

for my life to

break.

To think of losing him

feels like losing

the ground.

Here, white bottles

of lost hope

filled with herbs

still sit,

gathering dust,

on the indigo glass

coffee table.

I line them now in a row.

Wipe their dust.

Place them one by one in a bag,

head back to the hospital.

A month is enough time

for the moon to fade

and be remade.

But not long enough

to say I’m sorry or

goodbye.

UPSIDE-DOWN KINGDOM

Hover outside the room with this bag of herbs, a spy.

Fight my own impulse to run the other way, fly.

Dad, broken lips, bruised arms, hospital bed.

A rough white washcloth, James pats his head,

reads to him from his favorite book, Don Quixote.

I shift in the doorway.

All of spring break spent catching up on homework,

taking turns caring for Dad,

I’ve been reading him Alice in Wonderland,

she almost drowns in a river of her own tears,

lost, confused in an upside-down kingdom,

something he used to read

to us before bed.

James walks out, nods at me,

passes me the rough cloth, a baton,

and, like Alice, given no choice

but to bathe in her own tears,

I take it—

trade places with him,

the cloudy white room of

my own upside-down kingdom,

with cloth,

bag of herbs,

tape recorder

in hand, I wade in.

RECORDING SESSION

March

SESSION SIX

Dad, I have what I need for school.

But I’d like to keep asking you questions, just because.

(Coughs)

Okay, let’s keep at it.

What do you have in your sack there?

The herbs.

Maybe April’s right—maybe they could help.

(Pause)

(More coughing)

Okay.

(Pause)

I’ll think about it.

(Pause)

Dad, what would you like to do . . . with your time?

Finish reading The Byzantine Empire. Cook. Create.

Spend time with the people I love.

(Pause)

Dad, I’m sorry for—

I know, Miranda. It’s okay. Me too . . .

(Coughs)

Could you pass me a tissue?

Sure.

(Coughs)

Mira, you, you have to—

(Coughs)

make a future you are proud of—

Dad.

Life’s short, Miranda. Make it matter.

Okay.

I know.

(Pause)

I will.

LIT BRIGHT

FULL MOON, 24 DAYS LEFT

i don’t take a cab

the end of March air coats me

it is cool breezy and my jacket is thin

but after the hospital i just want to walk and

savor time the moon is full follow it down

the city streets one month and almost a week’s

passed already Dad’s words about my future en-

circle me i know i need to use the time left

to grow love from something waning

to something waxing, watered,

bright, round, full

ANOTHER LAYER

Dad home in a few days,

I sit and do homework.

Time seems to slow

if you focus on words, facts, solving problems.

Interrupted by April, crying.

I rub her back, tell her

I brought him all the bottles.

Told him I think he should take them.

She smiles through tears,

goes out to see Gloria.

Mom’s doing laundry, sorting, folding.

Guess we all have our ways of coping.

Wander into the kitchen, wonder what Dad

would cook if he were home.

Pull ingredients: Onions. Tomatoes. Noodles.

Dice onions evenly. Measure. Pour.

Brown the meat. Pink fades,

a nest of oil fills the pan.

Move the cheese along the grater,

Mom walks in.

She asks how Dad was today,

if I’m ready for school tomorrow.

I say he seemed okay, ignore the school question.

Keep grating.

She says she wants to answer the question I asked

months ago:

why she had children.

I pause.

Keep my head down. Continue.

Chop tomatoes, pieces pool in juice,

seeds swim and scatter.

She says she wanted to do things differently than her own mom,

says she fell in love with Dad fast,

wanted him, only him, to be the father of her children.

She says wanting children is different than having them.

I stir the onions in with the tomatoes.

We scared her. Our need. He was better with us, always.

First layer into the pan. Neatly laid.

Noodles, meat, tomatoes, cheese.

I know I’ve