Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,7
white planet bubble.
I don’t shred more bread,
don’t run my finger under the water,
I just let it all
burn.
II.
We eat, turkey without stuffing,
Mom, Dad, April,
all pretending
nothing is different.
They ask me questions, I say little.
Not knowing what would come out, if I really spoke.
Not wanting to yell at them, in front of April.
Instead, between bites, I squeeze my burnt finger.
At the end of the meal,
I look down to find my napkin shredded,
like torn clouds on my lap.
DEFLATING
Later April and I walk
to Central Park West,
the parade floats, deflating:
Mighty Mouse with shrunken arms,
Olive Oyl’s huge foot waves in the sky.
April asks me why did I
burn the stuffing.
I tell her I didn’t do it on purpose,
she asks am I sure.
Raggedy Ann falls at the waist.
Kermit dives headfirst.
April says that she likes it better, knowing the truth
about Mom and Dad, that they seem happier now.
Olive Oyl’s other foot falls, deflated.
I say well, you aren’t the one who walked in on Dad and James.
Her face falls. I regret my words.
She says she misses me.
I tell her I’m still here, for her.
We pass people parading home,
hordes of stores sit closed,
streetlights perched like spy cameras,
watching the crowds go,
until April and I are the only ones left
on these abandoned streets.
CHIMES AND CRYSTALS
We’re almost back to our street
but I can’t go home yet.
On Broadway:
an OPEN sign.
Celestial Treasures.
Dad calls it a woo-woo store, full of New Age junk.
April and I pause,
chimes and crystals rainbow,
tiny unicorns and fairies
freckle purple felt.
I want to reach
through the store window,
sit there, play
with the creatures.
Tell April to be the tallest unicorn,
I will be the fairy who just earned her wings.
Who cares what Dad thinks?
Push open the door,
a shrill woman’s voice whinnies
over the sound of bagpipes,
April and I smile at each other,
move further in.
We flip through Goddess Tarot Cards.
Sniff jasmine, sandalwood, eucalyptus.
Spy rows of medicinal herbs, vitamins.
Try on mood rings,
look up our birthdays on charts.
There’s a huge star map,
like Mr. Lamb’s,
but this one’s exploding colors and pictures:
myths that explain the names of constellations.
I read to April,
point out each planet.
But when I turn around,
she’s near a woman
with auburn hair
and lilac scarves.
Her name is Gloria,
she can help us,
if we need anything.
April moves toward her,
I pick up a rain stick.
April now
on the other
side of the store,
light as a leaf,
happy she said
with what our family’s
become.
I shake the stick
the sound pours over me
like being trapped inside
a waterfall—
April: on one side,
out of reach—
Me: on the other,
enclosed in a pounding curtain of rain.
WINTER
SUMMON A STORM
Harsh winter wind leaves
a cold layer
over everything,
no way to get warm.
Icy air coats
our apartment,
the space between me
and my family.
Insides matching outsides.
At Yearbook, I enter
and they are already working:
the sports pages,
each sport a planet unto itself.
A few months ago
I would’ve loved to see
this focus, determination.
Now I just want them to go,
spin out, away.
One of them asks where the field day collage went—
the one I destroyed—
I say it’s already off to the printer.
A lie that
flies easily from my tongue.
A parachute of lies that
holds me up lately.
They say isn’t it early,
I say not for color collages.
They believe me.
I open my desk drawer,
the erasers, staples,
still sit so neatly.
When no one is looking,
I summon a storm:
with a thunder
I
hail paper clips rain tacks
turn order into chaos.
WINTER LIGHT
The office door opens.
Sunlight beams in: Adam.
He says surprise, he’s home for winter break.
So relieved I am to see him,
for a second it’s like nothing’s changed,
my life makes sense and I know who I am.
I run to him.
Hug him.
His smell is something new.
The staff huddles around us, him,
asks what college is like, if he misses Yearbook,
he smiles at me, says he misses other things more.
He’s impressed by our layouts,
I shut the messed-up drawer.
Tell him I’m so happy he’s here.
He says it is just for tonight;
his family leaves for Jamaica in the morning.
That night, something else new—
we play quarters with his old high school friends.
He says he’s been drinking some, college, experimentation.
I nod, tell him likewise, and his friend Dave gives me a drink
each time a quarter lands in the Statue of Liberty mug.
Plink. Plink.
Drink.
DEAFENING
Back at his parents’ apartment,
I ask Adam if he’s been with anyone.
He says none of that matters,
he’s here with me.
I tell him just the sight of him
makes things feel calmer.
Easier.
I straddle him on his perfectly made bed.
My hair curtains his face,
his eyes are closed,
and I’m drunk enough not to care
that we’re no longer together,
drunk enough to say
one of the things I have to share.
I tell him I wanted to lose my virginity to him
before he left but—
He interrupts me, says
there’s no time like the present.
Puts a lock of hair behind my ear.
Traces a heart with his finger on my knee.
My