Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,5

wine at a patio bar and watched the parade go by. (Laughs) Both of us had trouble sitting with those wings on, so, after a while, the costumes came off and it was just us. We stayed up all night talking, agreed on so many things . . .

That’s—

The value of art and education. The importance of living life with an open mind. Letting love in, never being too rigid about anything—

Dad!

We’re supposed to talk about career here. Not take a trip down memory lane.

Well, I was going to say it was that night that your mom inspired me to follow through with my PhD plan and not stop at my Master’s.

(Pause)

So did you finish your application? To Columbia?

I’m not going to Columbia.

I’m not staying in this city.

Oh.

Okay.

That’s too bad, I was looking forward—

Number five: What career advice do you have for me?

Play to your strengths. Be true to yourself.

Well, that’s funny. Coming from you.

Pardon me?

Be true to yourself? The way you’ve been true to us?

Miranda—

What if you don’t even know who you are?

Miranda. You’ve always known who you are.

I don’t know anything anymore.

NO SPARKLING GOD

Septembers and Octobers we used to find

sequins on the soles of our bare feet,

feathers in the laundry.

Dad and Mom made their own costumes

every year before they met,

and every year after,

except the year she was gone.

They were always closest in the fall,

him poring over her sketches,

her handing him beads, a hot glue gun, a needle,

gifting him splinters of red glass

to glue on his shoes, wands, masks.

The past few years,

Mom and Dad

made costumes of all the

Aztec gods.

This year, they’ve made nothing.

This year, no one needs a costume.

Masks of Quetzalcoatl, Xochipilli,

big-beaked and feathered,

stare down at me,

line the hallway,

and just like you never really know

what’s on the inside of anyone

or any family,

on the outside

they are powerful, beautiful gods.

On the inside they are lifeless:

faces covered with fabric,

bones carved from Styrofoam.

COSTUMES

This year, Halloween night:

April, dressed as an angel,

goes to the parade

with a devil-horned Mom and Dad.

They invite me to come,

even made some wings for me.

I stay uptown, leave my wings at home,

a group of us weave through the Upper West Side.

Bart Simpsons and Madonnas blend in

with the vampires and princesses,

we pass a couple in matching Axl Rose bandanas.

Last year, Adam and I, matching troll dolls,

my hair pink, his orange,

sipped Coke from Solo cups,

R.E.M. blasting from the radio.

We went to the roof,

troll hair blowing up,

he told me he loved me,

loved how alike we were,

his eyes gleaming above me,

surrounded by all those skyscrapers, that navy sky.

I used to think I’d lose my virginity to him.

Now Dylan, in his pirate patch,

calls me Matey, breaks out his flask.

Asks me if I want a sip.

I take two.

Chloe meets us on the street—

a roller-skating candy cane.

Asks what Dad came up with this year

and why I’m not in costume.

I lie, tell her I’m tired, spent all night

helping him sew.

Say my dad’s going

as his favorite flower,

one species disguised as another,

a bird-of-paradise.

I follow through the streets,

matching Chloe and Dylan sip for sip,

watch as kids litter

candy wrappers everywhere.

CASSIOPEIA

Yearbook staff ’s on board

with the outer space idea.

They brainstorm like lightning:

classes in constellations,

faculty in rocket ships,

give each Senior an astronomical mission.

Somehow the theme has given them inspiration—

they draw and choose and pick and label.

As they work,

I feel myself floating

above them,

like Cassiopeia

hanging upside down

in the fall sky.

Try and keep myself focused, occupied,

anything to be away from home.

They ask if I want to see their work,

if I need to check it, I wave my hand, say it looks okay.

They ask questions over and over,

I have no answers, I shrug, say whatever.

After they’ve left:

My eyes wander over

their neatly laid piles of layouts,

pause at the one they worked hardest on,

a “field day fun day” collage.

Everyone looks so happy, carefree.

I crumple each corner.

Make a tiny rip through the center,

then keep ripping it to bits.

Eyes.

Hands.

Hair.

Just shreds of people

scattered at my feet.

HOT AND COLD

After school,

I walk right past the unsorted mail.

Dad says we need to talk college—

if I’m serious about not going to Columbia,

then I need to see other schools.

He’s trying to pretend things are the way they were,

that I’ll be there, hanging on his every word.

I tell him I don’t need his help,

I already know where I’m going to apply.

All small schools, away from the city.

He says we should visit one this weekend,

have an informational interview

while there’s time.

I sputter a fine,

anything to get out of here.

Go to my room.

April knocks,

asks if I’ll help her memorize lines

for the school play.

Mom comes in, watches.

April listens eagerly

as