Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,21
to new spots,
until we settle back in
rearranged but connected.
EXOPLANET
It’s been a month and a half since
I was kicked out of Yearbook.
I still have a key but
it doesn’t feel like my space
anymore.
Knock on the door,
ask the advisor
if I can talk to her
in the hall.
She says they’re trying to make their last deadline,
which is tomorrow.
Deep breath,
tick,
exhale,
tock.
Mr. Lamb says
there are exoplanets that orbit
stars in systems they are not a part of.
Force their way in.
I say I’m sorry
I couldn’t be
the leader I wanted to be,
the leader she hoped I would be.
Say I’d like to help now,
if I can.
She tells me it isn’t her
I need to apologize to—
lets me past her
into the room.
I apologize to the staff,
tell them I cut up
their field day collage,
almost ruined the yearbook.
I thank them for doing my work for me.
Ask if I can help today,
their last day.
They all look at each other,
look at me.
Ask why I stopped caring,
say they respected me.
I tell them I’ve been having problems at home,
maybe they’ve heard.
Tell them I would really like to contribute.
They pull out a layout sheet,
let me in.
The last of the Senior pages—
I draw boxes,
label photos.
Easy
but it feels good,
I do it quickly,
the ruler
cool and smooth,
something solid
beneath my thumb.
LIKE LIGHTNING
Saturday,
April and James volunteering at the GMHC.
Mom at the studio.
It’s just me and Dad.
His energy’s high,
laughs like lightning,
almost like a hyper child,
just me taking care of him.
Hand him his daily herbs and pineapple juice,
he makes a face but gulps them down.
I ask him if he’s up
for a drive.
RAIN ON THE DASH
Slide into the driver’s seat,
hands at 10 and 2.
Adam tried to teach me,
Dad too.
But the rushing traffic,
joggers with strollers,
weaving bikers,
learning to drive in the busiest city in the world?
No thanks.
Here we are,
back again,
me shaking
behind the wheel of a car.
Turn the key slowly.
Dad in the seat next to me.
I put on the blinker,
pull out into the street.
It starts to drizzle,
raindrops fall slowly
into each other,
taking their time.
Others run quick.
Dad says learning to drive
in inclement weather is essential.
Focus my whole self on the road.
For him, for me.
This time it’s not as scary as I remembered.
I glide up 96th Street.
Roll back down to 79th.
Do one exit on the highway.
Though my right turns are a bit wide,
my braking a bit slow,
Dad says much improved, good job,
we’ll do it again soon.
I hear his voice catch,
soften,
wobble,
like a drop sliding down the dash.
My view now obstructed by more than just the rain.
RECORDING SESSION
April
SESSION SEVEN
Okay, Dad, I want to ask you some more general questions about all of us.
What do you love about April?
Her playfulness. Her openness.
Her courage and passion, her soulfulness.
But I worry about her too. Sometimes she feels things really strongly.
Makes her a great actress.
It does.
I worry about her too.
(Pause)
Dad—why did you marry Mom?
(Coughs)
I fell in love with her while watching her work.
Your mom—she has an eye for beauty like no one else I know. A desire to show it to the world.
So you admire her?
I do—of course.
I hope, one day, you will see what I see.
And you know what I love about you, Mira?
No.
Your insightfulness, your perception,
how deeply, and sensitively, you take in the world.
Yeah?
When you were little
you would watch the kids play at the playground
for a while before you joined in.
You didn’t just rush right in,
but you didn’t stand watching forever either.
You did it your own way. When you were comfortable.
I always thought that was smart.
Thanks, Dad.
And there’s another thing that I love.
What’s that?
That you’ve made these.
The recordings?
Yes. That way I can always be with you.
WISHING STAR
NEW MOON, 11 DAYS LEFT
When we were little
April and I used to climb
Dad’s huge body. He would say
girls, I’m not a piece of furniture,
laugh anyway.
Now acupuncture needles slight as whiskers
climb over his wide forehead,
his naked calves,
dry hands.
Mom asks how it feels and he says
some are a quick sting, just a mosquito bite,
others like opening a gaping hole.
Gloria says every time his tummy grumbles,
it means his Chi’s moving, it’s a good sign.
With each grumble,
each dancing needle,
I dare myself to
hope
like a child,
hands crossed
at her windowsill,
eyes locked
on a wishing star.
GLUE, SCISSORS, TAPE
April, in her room,
newspapers, magazines,
glue, scissors, tape
at her side.
I ask her what she’s making,
she looks up,
says she’s making a collage for the Walk.
She’s trying to get more people involved.
Says I should come to the meetings.
I tell her I’m not so into hanging with James in my spare time.
She shrugs, says she might join ACT UP
next year, a group that’s more hard-core than GMHC.
Cut
cut
glue.
Says Mira, they’re so thin.
Whoever they are.
Africans.
Children who had blood transfusions.
Men, like Dad.
I tell her she needs a break,
pull her up,
look down
at all the photos,
so many people,
different colors
ages
races,
but all with the very same
face.
TWO CITY