Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,17
made mistakes, missed a lot, but
I’d like to be your mother now, if you’ll let me,
she says, touching my shoulder.
I shift slightly under the weight of her hand, swallow down
the lump in my throat,
don’t say anything, just cook—
she watches, stays by my side,
I add another layer to the clear glass pan.
SIXTY MINUTES
Lasagna’s perfectly done—
crisp along the edges,
soft center,
but Dad’s not here to eat it.
April’s still out with Gloria.
Mom and I sit at the table,
silent, paralyzed.
We leave the lasagna untouched.
Move to the TV.
60 Minutes is on.
Giuliani speaks about cleaning up
the crime in the city,
about the power of individual responsibility,
then a story
on the National Institutes of Health
funding new grants for AIDS research.
Mom murmurs about time.
They say with new money
they will have a better chance of
finding a cure.
Mom making an effort,
Dad considering the herbs,
April’s hopeful eyes—
I look into the Sunday night sky—
lights blink, planes glide
above boats slowly floating upriver
alongside cars zooming fast, uptown and down,
next to a park holding people—
time moves past me,
so many lives
suspended
inside this one moment,
my heart beating fast, breath shallow,
I can hardly feel
the difference between hope
and fear.
A REVERSE CRYSTAL BALL
First day back,
April and I march in,
locked arms.
Quick hugs from Dylan, Chloe.
They ask me what happened, is everything okay,
I say not really,
I’ll tell them more after school.
I focus on my classes.
After school, surprise:
Adam’s there.
I find Chloe and Dylan,
tell them I’ll catch up with them tomorrow.
They give me a look,
turn, leave.
Guilt flickers,
but Adam’s smiling big at me,
holding a container of ice cream.
Looking at him’s like looking into the past.
A reverse crystal ball.
For a minute,
so easy to forget
everything that’s happened.
Adam used to be something solid,
maybe if I let him,
he can be that for me again.
He whispers in my ear
how much he missed me,
he brought me mint chocolate chip—
my favorite.
Ask him why he’s here.
He says he has some exams,
studies better at home.
Says he felt bad
he missed my birthday,
asks what I did to celebrate.
I mumble nothing really as
he hands me the ice cream.
I cup it till
it frosts
my already chilled hands.
SQUINTING UP
We sit on the steps
of the Museum of Natural History,
eating ice cream in the cold.
A spring day that feels like winter.
A toddler runs up the stairs,
his mother carries a stroller.
Her eyes squint up
like they might catch him.
A guy with a plaid ski hat
sells pretzels from a street cart.
Taxis speed down the avenue.
A bit of early moon, purpling the sky.
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