Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,18
completely honest before.
He says okay,
uneasily.
I tell him:
I got kicked out of Yearbook.
Stopped doing my job,
my world
turned upside down,
what was important before
didn’t seem that way
anymore.
I tell him:
My dad has AIDS. He’s dying.
He moves his arm out
from underneath me.
Asks if he had a transfusion
or something.
I tell him no—
my parents have an open marriage.
They both have lovers, men, women.
He asks
what the hell is an open marriage,
stands up, backs away,
says isn’t that a contradiction in terms.
I cover myself with a sheet.
He puts his underwear on.
Says that’s crazy.
A sprinkle of his spit lands on my cheek.
I wipe it away.
Look at myself in his spotless mirror,
cheeks flushed, hair messy.
He says:
I can’t believe you kept this from me.
All this time, and—
I can’t trust you, Mira.
Asks how I could let us be intimate, without telling him.
I say I don’t have it,
he doesn’t have to be scared.
He says he’s not scared.
He’s disgusted.
That AIDS is a deserved disease.
Something people bring on themselves.
I get up,
dress quickly.
Ask how dare he say that about my dad.
He tells me I should get out of his room.
Tells me I can forget about prom.
I can forget about him.
I can still feel him inside of me
as he pulls his sheets off his bed.
I tell him I’m sorry
for hiding the truth,
but it wasn’t like he’d been there for me.
And he doesn’t have to be so nasty.
I’m still me.
He asks me how dare I say that,
I’m the one who betrayed him,
whoever I am
is someone he doesn’t recognize.
CRASH
I don’t wait for the elevator,
I fly down flights of stairs,
almost crash into Adam’s parents in the lobby.
Adam’s mother,
caramel bob,
coral nails,
his dad in a suit.
They kiss me on the cheek,
tell me they hope to see more of me.
I kiss them back blindly,
thunder booms outside.
Feather clouds swallowed
by a crashing, storming sky.
STRANDED
The
North
Star
may
be
constant
but
it
is
still
four
hundred
and
thirty
light
years
away
from
those
floating
lost
and
stranded
here
on
Earth.
DRENCHED
I walk the blocks,
rain drenching my hair, my clothes
down to my underwear,
I think I remember
knowing this boy,
that he was someone
who made me feel safe.
That he was someone
I so often agreed with.
Now he is someone
who has shamed me.
Shamed my family.
I walk the streets,
trying to remember,
block by block,
drop by drop,
who I am.
SOAKING
Soaking wet, I arrive home.
Mom asks if I’m okay,
I lie, say yes, thanks,
pour myself into a hot bath.
Scrub until I can no longer
feel
Adam’s touch
or
words.
OUT MY WINDOW
Next day, wake up,
don’t want to waste energy, time
on Adam, who obviously
doesn’t love, respect me.
Doesn’t know anything about my father.
I will Adam’s words to
float out of me,
out my window,
sink all the way down
to the bottom
of the Hudson.
Where they belong.
WHAT WE ARE MADE OF
Before school, Mom takes us to get TB tests
to make sure we didn’t catch it
from breathing in Dad, orbiting his space.
The doctor gives us a sheet, what to watch for,
what could grow.
I wonder how scared Dad was when he had his HIV test,
long ago.
Wonder who went with him. Mom. James.
Or if he went alone.
April and I clutch hands,
hold each other up as we
breathe deep,
lock arms,
march in.
I enter Astro late,
Mr. Lamb’s talking about Carl Sagan.
A quote of his on the board, underlined:
We are made of star stuff.
Mr. Lamb goes on to say, whether or not any of us believe
in something spiritual, we are connected,
we all share matter.
I slide in next to Dylan.
Write him a note:
Is this astronomy or philosophy?
He writes same thing,
asks how I’ve been.
Look down at my injection site, so far nothing’s grown.
Shrug, not sure what to say. Thoughts of Adam come too close.
Look at Dylan, push them away.
Write a note to Chloe,
an apology for ditching her for Adam.
Draw Dylan a doodle of a girl,
me,
floating above it all,
head shaped like a star.
He takes my pen,
transforms my star
into a heart.
A BOMBARDMENT
Spot Chloe down the hall,
walk toward her,
note in hand
pass it over
till the school psychologist
gets in my face.
Blocks my path.
A bombardment.
You’re spending your free period with me,
she commands,
drags me to her room,
down a tunnel, second floor.
Says Mom called,
told her how sick Dad is.
I fold one hand into another,
don’t look at her.
In my head
I curl up into a ball.
Spin fast through the sky.
Feel the wind in my eyes.
Focus on the veins in my hands.
Intersecting highways.
Wish I could ride them
away from here.
She asks if I’m listening.
I nod, find a split end. Pick it.
Her volume increases,
tells me she can’t force me to talk about it.
But she knows, from experience, that being honest
and open with people, no matter what you’re feeling,
can make a difference. Make things better.
I don’t say anything—
wasn’t I honest, open with Adam?
That made things worse.
I focus on my fingernails now,
how fast they keep growing.
Can’t stop time from changing anything,
bit by bit, cell by cell.
Can’t stop time from flying.
She finally lets me