Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,9
don’t need James’s help,
Dad says he didn’t know if I’d be around.
He sounds hurt, speaks in a voice
that leaves me with no right
to question.
III.
Later, everyone home,
Mom puts on a Christmas CD.
April puts a wreath on her head,
helps James hang the lights.
April seems unfazed by this new “family.”
I pretend to look through the boxes.
Blue glass balls that Mom made,
store-bought reds, greens and golds,
a peeled-nosed Rudolph,
a broken-hatted Frosty.
’Tis the season to be jolly!
Bing Crosby croons.
I pull a white unicorn with a red saddle from the box.
The smell of pine drifts
as they turn the tree into a blinking sky.
They all sing “Silent Night,”
I snap off the creature’s horn.
Pocket it.
Tell them I still need to buy gifts.
Float out the door.
IV.
On the street,
smoke a red I bummed from Chloe.
Fairy bells jingle as I enter Celestial Treasures.
Dark Side of the Moon on low as a whisper.
I walk over to the crystals:
a shelf of tiny violet cities,
walls of windows,
every triangled side, a light.
I palm one that looks like the skyline.
For a minute I think about getting it for Dad.
Then I remember what I walked out on:
Mom. Dad. April. James.
Together. Playing perfect family.
I go to the earrings,
pick out some star studs, for April.
Gloria is folding tapestries.
Asks me how my sister’s doing,
asks with some concern,
I say fine (as always).
Wonder why she cares so much.
After I pay, on my way out,
I pull the horn out of my pocket;
bury it in the folds of the window display
before I scurry away.
HUBBLE’S LAW
Adam, back from Jamaica,
left me something in the lobby:
a seashell barrette, a note.
In my room I read:
Sorry for how I acted last time.
Hope to see you next time I’m home.
The shells are so shiny,
like they’re still
underwater.
I reread his note.
Feel seasick. Confused.
Not sure what he wants
from me, what I want
from him.
My bedroom phone rings.
Dylan says he’s got Phish tickets for New Year’s.
In Massachusetts.
Dad and Mom, together, on the couch.
He’s reading I, Claudius,
she’s got her glasses on, tongue on lip,
drawing plans for her new glass animal farm.
I don’t ask them if I can go to a concert
or on a trip with friends.
Not wanting a fight, not wanting a no,
just ask if I can go to Chloe’s for New Year’s.
Mom leans into his shoulder,
Dad nods his head, yes,
okay, I can go.
For a minute they look like the figures from my drawing,
perfect, average, normal,
lying, folded, under my pillow.
For a minute, I think about grabbing April,
sitting with them.
But then I remember Hubble’s Law:
The closer a galaxy is to us,
the faster it’s moving away.
I can’t be part of a family
that’s built on lies,
they think they can pull me closer,
now that things are out in the open,
but
I’ve already
drifted
away.
OUT TO SEA
I.
We take Chloe’s nonna’s Volvo.
Listen to “Sample in a Jar”
fifteen times in a row.
The farther we drive, the more I forget
my parents don’t know where I am.
I forget if I even care.
We land on Planet Phish:
looks like the 1976 yearbook:
girls in patchwork skirts,
guys in bell-bottoms,
hemp necklaces and grilled cheese for sale,
pot and sweat and patchouli.
We move with the crowd into the indoor arena.
In the hallway,
two girls,
one naked except for overalls,
another in
white-blond dreads,
sell a pink-patched dress
with a pocket gem that shines—
a beaded silver moon.
Immediately my plain clothes feel wrong.
I nod my head to the dress,
shed my jeans and sweater.
II.
During “Run Like an Antelope,” we herd through aisles—
bubble gum smoke pours
on us
pink and yellow balloons
rain down
a guy in a ponytail leads me in a wild
do-si-do
swinging me by the arm,
then comes “Auld Lang Syne.”
We slow dance.
Ponytail leads me to a corner,
kissing, swimming me into the wall,
his spindly, tattooed arms wrapping me.
I think about Adam for a minute, and who he’s kissing.
Ponytail strokes my back,
his cheek scrubbing mine.
He whispers Happy New Year in my ear,
fingers my dress strap,
edges his fingers down,
traces the pocket moon.
He asks where I came from,
I think about lying, saying Larchmont or Long Island.
But I tell him the truth.
He says he’s heard kids grow up fast
in New York City.
I guess they do.
I pull Ponytail into a darker space
behind the bleachers, let him touch me
where he wants, and I touch him too.
Because that’s what New York City kids do.
I float away—
until “Down with Disease” shouts me awake.
My body pulses
in disgrace at this stranger’s touch.
I push away Ponytail,
who calls me a tease.
Search for Chloe and Dylan.
My heart beats faster,
my feet quicken
to the frenzy of the music,
building, like gliding under the biggest waves,
water sliding over my back.
When I find my friends,
we dance like we’re on fire,
holding hands, jumping waves of flame,
focus on my own breath,
breathe in sweet smoke
fast as fire
slow as
water.
AS THE CITY