Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,6

Mom offers her advice.

I roll my eyes,

leave them in my room, rehearsing.

I take a shower,

think about spending the weekend

with Dad at some random college,

about Mom helping April,

as if she’s always been there

for her,

us.

I make the water icy cold,

then all the way

back to

hot.

IF WE COULD FIND ANY STARS

Sneak out,

Dylan asks if I want to smoke up.

I always say no,

but the way Dylan looks at me tonight,

squinting eyes behind shaggy hair,

his John Lennon glasses on,

I say yes.

We climb the Big Rock

in Riverside Park,

reach the top.

Dylan says I seem different.

I tell him I think he’s right,

we’re all in Existential crisis.

He says he misses me nagging him about

his college apps, I’ll be happy to know

he’s thinking of applying early to NYU.

Not long ago, I thought I’d apply early too.

Instead, tomorrow, off to visit some college

in rural Pennsylvania.

I think of telling Dylan about my parents,

how I do feel like a totally different me.

That I don’t know what to do with all this change.

Instead, I inhale,

take in the heavy smoke

from the swirly blue pipe.

Breathe in.

Out.

It feels like my head is caught in a cloud.

Thoughts

fly away

as quickly

as they come.

Dylan opens his

mouth,

it forms a

half crescent

against the sky.

Goes for another hit.

Exhales loudly,

smoke spiraling from our mouths,

he looks into my eyes,

his pupils full moons.

We lie back

together

on the wet rock,

thoughts shooting in and out.

We would look for stars—

if we could find any.

BREATHE AND SWALLOW

Dad and I,

Saturday to Sunday,

visiting Dickinson College.

Scared to be alone with him

in a car, trapped.

Wish I could

just apply to places, not have to see them,

try to get out of it, say

Chloe needs my help,

there’s a Yearbook deadline.

Nothing works.

Dad asks if I want to practice my driving,

I tell him no way.

I haven’t gotten behind the wheel

since failing my road test last year.

Turn on my Walkman,

wait for Manhattan to vanish

into the Pennsylvania hills.

Somewhere between here and there Dad asks

if I’m nervous.

A month ago, I would’ve been.

For a minute

I think about Columbia,

life before,

and something like a lozenge gets stuck in my throat,

I try to

breathe

swallow

around it.

Wonder how forest and highway

can simultaneously exist,

wind the cords from my headphones

tight to tighter

around my wrists.

GRACE

A brick town square, a flag, a church:

the small town of Carlisle,

the college at its heart,

cradled in farmlands

and Central Pennsylvania hills.

Grace, the Admissions interviewer,

shakes my hand, smiles warmly—

Sitting there,

in this greenhouse of an office,

full of plants and light wood,

I try to put back on my old self.

Talk to Grace enthusiastically

about Astronomy, Yearbook, Peer Mentorship.

She asks about New York City.

Flash to the cyclones of trash,

the homeless, the rush of crowds.

I tell her the city is vibrant, energetic,

but I’m ready for a change,

I need the peace

of small town life, for a while.

I ask her if students can see the stars at night.

And she smiles.

CHANGES IN BRIGHTNESS

I.

On the ride home

watch the trees and hills,

think of Grace and the stars,

wonder if

pushing time forward,

racing past this part

could be just what I need.

If college in the country

will be my bright place,

and I just need to get from here

to there.

II.

Home.

Notice how messy

the house has become.

Laundry unfolded,

dishes left undone.

I pick up a shirt

to fold it,

hear

April and Mom

on the couch, laughing,

throw it back down.

They’re eating chips, watching a home video—

the one where April and I made up a play,

Barbies attacked by our Pound Puppies,

enemies first then friends.

They’re laughing at one of the songs we made up.

April sings along with the movie.

Dad sits down, right away, to watch,

Mom’s hand on his knee.

Video Dad comes in,

so tan and young, with his old friend Manuel.

Sneak a look at Dad, smiling,

I wonder if he’s a former lover.

I watch as young Dad touches my head. Young Mira leans into him.

Try to remember now how it felt,

being with him,

feeling like the world was safe.

III.

Video Mira is all smiles, bright.

But the star Mira changes in brightness

1,400 times in a year.

Half the time it’s visible

to the naked eye,

the other half it can’t even be seen

with binoculars.

Standing there,

amidst a family I don’t recognize,

I fade, go dim.

Even the flicker of lightness I felt,

the hopeful promise of a new life in the country,

seems to darken.

Sit down,

Dad says.

And April, too, asks me to come watch, please.

Mom pats a spot next to her.

I whisper

no thanks.

Flicker.

Fade

out.

SHREDS

I.

Dad asks if I will make the stuffing

on Thanksgiving.

Usually he does the whole meal without our help.

He says I’m old enough, he trusts me.

I don’t want to,

but I do it.

Chop the celery, the onions,

methodically, evenly, like he taught me,

but soon my wrist tires,

the smell of turkey sickens me,

all my pieces go jagged.

When I go to do the bread,

it gets burned, curls up,

blackening the bright red pan.

I touch my finger to the heat, unthinking,

it stings for a minute, then forms

a small