GIRLS
We hit the closet on our way out,
cloak ourselves in Mom’s jackets, big shoulder pads,
April in cheetah print,
me in shiny coral,
grab umbrellas, huge purses.
See Four Weddings and a Funeral,
expecting more laughs than tears,
eat peanut M&M’s,
popcorn,
drink Cherry Cokes.
We laugh until we cry
and my heart gets that stony feeling—
not knowing the death would be from AIDS.
On the walk home,
April says even if Dad lives
longer than we thought,
I’ll still be leaving.
Guilt rolls in
thick like fog.
I swallow hard,
keep in my cry,
point to purple and yellow crocuses,
poking their heads out around a
concrete-imprisoned tree.
I tell her not to worry,
she can come visit me—
and I tell her a story of
two city girls picking flowers under a starry country sky.
COUNTING TIME
WAXING CRESCENT MOON, 7 DAYS LEFT
Friends chant in the hallway:
count down the days,
the hours,
till prom,
graduation.
My clock counts time by T cells,
which seem to be holding for now:
dancing needles,
crystals around his neck,
the smell of sage hanging
in the apartment air.
I count time by platelets
and Dad is at 5,000—
only one-thirtieth the amount
of a healthy person.
Do I dare
at 5,000 platelets
with no date
pick out a dress?
Do I dare
look to the future?
rush across the sun?
gallop past the moon?
OPEN STAR CLUSTERS
FIRST QUARTER MOON, 2 DAYS LEFT
My Astronomy textbook says
open clusters of stars
are easier to study
than isolated stars
because they are almost
the same age
and have almost the same
chemical composition.
Scientists
get to know stars better
when they live in these clusters
than when they live
out
isolated
alone.
Then they are hard to study,
hard to tell
when they fade or glow.
I come out of my room,
to find April.
She’s drawing flyers for the AIDS Walk.
I sit down with her, ask her, please, if I can help.
She says sure, hands me white paper and a black pen.
I write in
black
bold:
FIGHT AIDS. WALK TALL.
Line my poster with
clusters of stars.
MORNING STAR
WAXING GIBBOUS MOON
day
0
wake up
hardly slept, my palms scattered with crescent
marks from my nails dug in, he’s
awake, alive, i grin and
kiss him on his
cheek on the way
to school april
and i
walk
hopeful
together.
SIP SWEET SIPS
Come straight home after school,
Dad’s showered and dressed.
I ask him, sun bright,
if he’d like to take a walk with me.
A new coffee shop just opened,
Starbucks, does he want to try it.
We walk, slowly, hand in hand,
to 87th and Broadway.
We get things called Venti Frappuccinos,
which sound ridiculous but taste delicious—
and I don’t think about
who sees or doesn’t see
his AIDS face.
I just sip sweet sips.
Dad talks about all the big businesses
taking over Manhattan:
Tower Records,
Banana Republic.
How we’re living
in a changing city.
Then he says, smiling,
sun blasting through the windows,
and I’m alive to see it.
OVERLAPPING LIVES
April heads downtown
with James
to stuff envelopes for a GMHC mailing.
This time, I don’t ask to join,
just tell her I’m coming, bring Dylan.
On a crowded 9 train,
we hang on to silver poles,
where so many fingerprints
have already left their mark.
Think about how many places
these people are going,
wonder how many to the
same street,
same building,
how many lives
are constantly overlapping.
Wonder if flutters of hope
(like mine)
can pass
from person to person
without so much
as a touch or
glance.
INSIDE OUR SELVES
I.
The Gay Men’s Health Crisis sign
waves proudly in the breeze.
The mailing’s in full swing.
Keith Haring posters everywhere,
men and women
talking over each other,
snacks and drinks.
Reminds me of a Yearbook meeting
except April, Dylan and I
are the only teenagers.
I wonder if any of these people
have children of their own.
I’m in charge of sticking address labels
on postcards.
I lay them out alphabetically,
pull them off delicately,
careful not to rip.
April licks the stamps.
Dylan stacks the postcards in messy piles,
shoos me away
when I start straightening them,
laughs, says don’t even think
of micromanaging me.
April smiles.
II.
James knows everyone here.
Like he’s in charge,
keeping things organized,
pouring Coke,
sneaking April extra Doritos.
Dylan talks about his cousin,
now suffering with pneumonia.
James shows us proofs
for new safe sex ads
for the buses and subways, asks
for our “youthful opinion.”
As if James is so old?
April tells me James is here
almost all the time
when he’s not teaching,
playing music,
caring for Dad.
I think about how our lives don’t just overlap
with other people’s, but how
inside each person
we are
so many selves
all at once.
MOVING THE AIR
In Peer Mentorship,
we discuss safe sex.
Condoms, pamphlets.
Mr. R introduces the topic,
then steps into the hall.
Two Freshmen blow condom balloons,
toss them back and forth.
Girls laugh.
Heat swells inside me.
I erupt:
My dad’s dying from AIDS.
It’s not just happening in Africa.
Condoms aren’t a joke.
You need to be safe.
Their mouths hang open.
I’m sure they’ve heard the rumors
but it is different
to hear the truth spoken directly.
The condom balloons whiz to the ground.
And even though the windows are closed,
and the fans are turned off,
the air feels like it’s moving.
THE BLANKET OF THE MOON
SOLAR ECLIPSE, MAY 10, 1994
Mr. Lamb leads us out
to watch the sky,
clutching our pinpricked cardboard
for the solar eclipse.
We herd across the street.
As the sky grows dark,
Dylan asks