Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,23
me—in a whisper—
if I want to go to prom with him.
I smile as
the always-lit New York City
goes dark for a bit
of day.
Moon and sun,
the same for the moment.
Together, light and dark, they make something
more beautiful than when alone:
A moon with sun’s rays.
A sun the color of moon.
And then I tell Dylan
I’ll go to prom with him
if he’ll do something in return:
march alongside
me and my family
in the AIDS Walk.
For Dad, for his cousin.
I thought you’d never ask,
Dylan says, smiling,
hugging me,
just as the sun reemerges
from behind
the blanket of the moon.
FLYING
April and I walk
from school
to street corner
to store,
passing out
flyers
for the AIDS Walk.
We curve through the crowded blocks,
shoulder to shoulder,
stream through the streets.
Carol at the Starlight Diner
lets us put a stack
on the windowsill.
Chloe puts some up
in her own neighborhood.
The movie theater won’t take the flyers.
Celestial Treasures does, of course.
Others fly away
in the early May winds.
The last place we hit
is Adam’s lobby.
Put some in an envelope,
label it 11C.
I might never hear from Adam again,
so he might never know:
when he pushed me out
I floated
into the black
and found there
the light of my family and true friends.
And like a real North Star
it guided me home.
OUR OWN SKY RAINBOW
AIDS WALK, MAY 22, 1994
I.
On the way there
April chatters about the history
of the Walk:
it started in 1984,
San Francisco,
there are Walks everywhere now,
even in Kansas,
she says.
I listen,
wonder what it will feel like,
marching with so many people
affected,
infected,
by this disease,
wonder if anyone’s story
is just like our own.
April and I meet up with Dylan,
join James, register walkers.
Hordes of people swarm
Central Park
with their papers.
A teenage girl, just my height,
comes to the table, pushing
a man in a wheelchair,
face and neck spotted with lesions.
Says she and her dad are here to register.
Her father looks much worse off than mine.
I wonder if she knows about astragalus,
pineapple juice, protein shots.
Wonder if she has anyone else to help
with her dying father.
Hand her the papers,
thank her for coming,
tell her it should be a great day.
She smiles weakly—
says we need one of those.
Next:
two men,
a couple,
arms locked.
One flirts with James,
says the volunteers are getting better and better looking.
James laughs, gives them their papers.
One rests his head on the other’s shoulder.
Says he’s already tired, the other says
they’ll walk and rest.
Rest and walk.
They move on.
Some members of ACT UP
approach us with their own flyers,
I recognize the slogan:
SILENCE = DEATH.
For the first time
I think I know what this means.
How silence
breeds secrecy, shame.
How I hurt myself
being silent.
How silence can ruin
lives.
April and James speak Spanish
with an older woman,
who says she’s here to march for
her son, who’s in the hospital.
Chloe arrives,
wearing layers of rainbow clothes.
Birds tweet in trees,
the sun sits high in the sky,
masses of people ready to march,
spilling out
into the streets,
red ribbons on display,
they begin to cheer,
wave rainbow flags.
I look around and wonder how
I ever could have
thought myself
alone.
II.
We meet Mom,
who’s pushing Dad
in a wheelchair of his own.
Waving a small flag.
We burst onto Central Park West,
turquoise sky sloping between
one building and the next,
walking north,
up, up,
we all take turns pushing Dad.
The sky splinters and darkens.
Volunteers pass out ponchos, Gatorade.
Mom puts Dad’s hat on.
James grabs him a drink.
As we walk,
I see that girl again
with her father,
and I notice
another man with them now,
and a woman.
Flanking them.
She looks at me,
and sort of waves.
I sort of wave back.
Two families
in reflection.
III.
On Riverside,
past our own apartment building,
rain threatens but then
the sky settles back
into baby blue.
James shouting, Fight back! Fight AIDS!
We join in.
Dylan and Chloe compete
to see who can yell the loudest.
There’s no rainbow in the sky
but I wave my flag high.
April grins,
holding her crystal necklace
into the sun,
where it splashes
its own tiny rainbow
onto my arm.
SUMMER
FIREWORKS
Last quarter moon,
Dad still hanging on.
Forty-two days longer than they said he would.
Can he make it longer still?
To graduation?
Beyond?
Open my Astro textbook,
search for an answer,
stare at photo after photo of nebulas.
They may only be gas shells
produced by dying stars—
a star’s last wish—
but they look like
fireworks,
red, purple clouds
of hope—
a yes
suspended
in a wide-open
sky.
WATCH IT FLY
Yearbook’s out.
Grab Chloe, to the stairwell,
flip through it together.
The front page quote, my idea, still reads:
When we look to the stars
we are looking back in time . . .
Cliques sit in star clusters,
faculty fly in rocket ships,
whole grades in constellations.
I’m not listed as editor,
or even on staff,
but my ideas
sparkle and light up
the pages.
I know, in a small way, I
helped make
something
lasting.
I carry a small rainbow flag in my pocket,
the one Dad held during the Walk.
Tell Chloe
I have to go
somewhere alone,
I’m okay.
When I get there,
use my old key.
Sit down at that long white counter.
Open the drawer.
Take a minute to
sort the paper clips
from the tacks
from the erasers.
Then, go to the yearbooks,
and next to the spine of the 1976 edition,
I stick in the tiny flag.
Watch the