rainbow
throw its color all over
that white room.
IN A FLASH
Prom night.
Put up my hair.
Put my dangly earrings on.
Step into my blue dress.
Dad says I look like a mermaid.
Mom takes pictures.
The mirror, like a camera,
freezes time in a flash,
catching all of us
inside of it
for one brief
moment.
ORION’S BELT
I.
Last year,
on the dance floor,
I twirled in,
Adam spun me out.
Tonight, I focus on Dylan.
Notice for the first time
a Saturn ring of yellow
surrounding the soft brown
of his eyes.
II.
At the after-prom party,
Adam and I
kept to ourselves.
We sipped Sprite,
toasted to summertime
while everyone else
cheered and clinked
glasses of champagne.
Tonight we take a limo
to a classmate’s beach house.
On the way—Dylan’s hand
on my leg, casually, like it’s always
been there. Chloe, in a pink slip dress,
with some new guy
who seems nicer than the others.
The air’s just warm enough
to roll down the windows,
stars blinking at us all the way
to the beach.
III.
My head spins
as Dylan and I lie
back in the grass
on the front lawn.
Dylan draws
small circles
on my inner
wrist.
My dad’s lived
six weeks more
than they said he would.
I say it twice.
The second time
a tear rolls down
my cheek.
He kisses
it
away.
Pointing up to the sky,
he traces Orion’s Belt
with his finger,
I grab it
when it comes back down.
He draws me in,
I don’t pull away.
BIRDS IN PARADISE
The next day,
high heels in hand,
Dylan’s tux jacket on,
home to find
Mom and Dad
in the living room,
sewing machine out.
Him hunched over it, stitching.
Her in a sea of fabrics
and feathers.
Mom said they decided
to make a costume together.
Just for fun.
I watch Dad press his foot on the pedal.
I watch Mom cut.
They argue over the true hue of chartreuse.
Laugh about the thunderstorm during the parade the year they met.
They work for hours.
April helps me make dinner.
When they’re done,
a mask of petals,
tail of stems,
Dad says it isn’t their finest work.
Mom agrees.
But I think it is.
RECORDING SESSION
June
SESSION EIGHT
Okay, Dad, it’s almost graduation.
Seven whole weeks past—
Doomsday.
Yeah.
So time for some real serious questions.
Uh-oh.
What’s the best meal you ever ate?
(Laughs)
Probably one I had in Italy one summer with your mother before you were born. It was the kind of meal that went on for hours.
What about your happiest childhood memory?
My mama teaching me to sew.
The time you felt most proud of yourself?
The day I was accepted to college.
And it’s almost your turn now.
No rush.
Not yet.
Nope—first you have to walk the stage.
(Long pause)
Dad, why are you crying?
Don’t worry, honey. These are happy tears.
ENDINGS ARE BEGINNINGS
I stand in a sea of black,
a group of graduates,
of smiles and sweat,
lining up,
marching forward, under
the brightest lights.
Chloe salutes me, flashes her Vans.
Dylan half smiles at me, I smile back.
We, the class of 1994,
face
the crowd.
A big-deal news reporter talks
about the opportunity
to go forth unafraid, follow your future,
trust your path, make
your way,
look back on this time and remember it was special.
Her voice floats away like
a drifting log
and all I can see is him:
smiling large,
bright blue eyes
focused right on me.
Dad Is Here.
I exhale deep as
he lifts his long, thin arm
and waves.
NEVER LETS GO
A few nights later,
Chloe and I
meet up with some other
girls from our class.
She wants us to try
to get into a dance club
to celebrate our independence.
Skirt flowing,
letting Chloe put toffee lipstick on me
when the phone rings.
Mom:
Dad
back in the hospital.
Chloe
forgets the club,
hails the cab,
comes to the hospital
and even though we aren’t dancing
she never lets go of my hand.
IN TUBES
April meets me in the lobby,
face wet, says he’s in Intensive Care,
I tell Chloe to go,
I’ll call with updates.
The fluorescent light
coats us, Dad back in tubes,
all of us in masks.
The monitor beeps.
Mom puts her hand on my back.
Pneumonia,
she says.
THE SOUND OF IT
Home for a few hours,
then in the morning,
back at the hospital.
James steps out,
gives April and me some time.
Mom spent the night last night,
asks if I want a turn.
Dad’s moved from Intensive Care
to a private room.
If it weren’t for his diaper, the IVs,
it could almost seem like a hotel.
I place an amethyst on his chest,
he smiles,
curls his fingers around it.
Says when he dies, he wants a party.
Nothing sad, he says, a celebration of life.
I tell him shhh,
ask if he wants to watch TV.
Hoarsely, he whispers
put on something brilliant.
Lucky for us,
Amadeus is on.
Mozart’s hands speeding
over the piano keys
as Salieri seethes
with jealousy.
Dad tries to conduct
a few times with his hands
but they are attached to
too many things.
A nurse comes in,
asks him to not move around
so much.
The credits roll as Mozart
releases his last
high-pitched cackle
over the screen’s darkness.
Dad laughs too.
I imagine the sound echoing
through the hospital hallways,
shaking the pill bottles
right off that nurse’s tray.
DECLARATION
The doctor says
there’s nothing more anyone can do.
He made it longer than they expected.
She’s sending him home to be comfortable, she says.
Though none of us say it,
his wheezing, coughing, skeletal body
shows us
what she really means.
CHECKMATE
Back in my parents’ bedroom.
Dad asks