DARKENING SKY
It’s barely snowing now
but they say it’s coming.
In manila envelopes,
I hold tickets out of here.
Applications to three schools,
Dickinson, Kenyon, Bowdoin,
all the same and all complete,
all in the country, away from here,
away from the gray of New York City,
the city Dad loves to love,
the city I’m ready to leave behind.
I pause
in front of the post office,
packages thick with the
weight of my lies,
experiences I never had,
hoping to earn a spot of peace
far away from here.
As I mail them,
the snow falls heavy,
the sky, darker.
TWO CLOUDS INTERSECTED
Back in the apartment,
empty-handed, jacket wet.
For a minute, excited to tell the old Dad,
I did it, it’s done.
I’m greeted by quiet:
see them together
again.
This time
out in the open,
sleeping
on the living room couch.
James’s arm tucked around Dad’s back
cuddling,
their heads nestled together
like two clouds intersected.
I swallow a cry and like the
snow
I
fall and melt
away.
NORTHERN LIGHTS
Later that night,
I spy a new glass bird
perched on the coffee table.
I touch its thin wings,
trace the bright green swirls.
So light, smooth, cool
in my palm.
Mom emerges from the kitchen,
smiling, seeing me holding the bird.
Said she made it
for my future dorm room.
Colored it to look like
the Northern Lights.
I feel myself turn hollow,
holding this flightless bird.
I set it down.
Hard. Make it tremble.
Every day, she makes those animals
so delicately,
purposefully,
every day, adding distance and fractures
to our already broken family.
I ask Mom if she ever gets jealous of
what Dad has with James.
Tears shimmer in her hazel eyes.
But I keep going:
ask her why they even stayed married,
why she and Dad ever had kids.
I don’t wait for answers,
just leave her there,
flightless,
with that bird.
BLIZZARD
All night, snow.
Open the window,
stretch my arms out.
Keep my eyes open
in the white, whipping wind.
There are few cars on the highway.
The river’s frozen in places.
In a city that never stops,
I can hardly hear anything.
For tonight, the city gives me
what I need.
FLIPPED
Chloe calls,
asks if I’ll ever get ungrounded.
I say who knows,
maybe I could sneak out anyway.
She tells me
wait it out, don’t make it worse.
Now she’s the one with advice.
I hang up.
The world has flipped.
Next, April comes in my room,
says Dad will let me go to the movies,
but only with her.
Asks if I want to hit the closet,
wear funny old coats and hats of Mom’s.
I tell her no, grab an umbrella.
At the theater,
nothing’s worth seeing,
or the times are all wrong.
Instead, we sip too-cold hot chocolates at Cafe 82,
watch a family eat cheeseburgers,
kids play tic-tac-toe, parents plan spring break.
On the way home,
April says she heard me fighting with Mom.
That she’s trying to help him, us.
I tell her I’m not going to pretend
that Mom’s been here all along,
when she hasn’t.
April stops me,
the freezing rain battling us,
says we can’t keep fighting
like this, who knows how much time we have left.
Tells me Gloria says
we need to shine light on our secrets,
it will help us heal.
Before I can say I don’t know how,
the wind picks up,
turns my umbrella inside out.
RECORDING SESSION
February
SESSION FIVE
Last three questions. I want to wrap this up today.
All right.
Question ten:
What does empowerment mean to you?
(Pause)
It means finding your own strength . . . and then using it in ways that make you and the people around you stronger.
Eleven: How do you approach the unknown?
(Coughs)
I used to be braver. Now—I’m more—cautious.
That’s ironic.
Twelve: When is it okay to break the rules?
When your heart tells you the rules are dysfunctional.
Bullshit.
Did your heart tell you the rules of marriage are dysfunctional? Did it tell you to lie to your children?
Stop the tape, Miranda.
No. I’ve done nothing but listen to you for years. And the whole time you’ve been lying to me.
Things are more complicated than you realize. Love is a tricky thing.
Please stop the tape. Take a deep breath.
No.
Miranda, I know you’re upset. We all are.
But you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep pushing people away and shutting them out.
Time’s up.
HIS PUNK ROCK FACE
I stop the tape, walk away,
shout that I’m going out.
Footsteps follow me to the door.
Not Dad.
Not Mom.
James comes from around the corner.
His silver eyebrow ring. His blue-black hair.
He tells me he heard our session,
that I’ve upset Dad.
That I need to let people in. They need me.
I should try to be there more for my family.
My insides burn.
I say
Why do they need me
when you’re doing a great job for all of us?
He’s not done talking,
but I shut the door in his punk rock face.
THE SPACE BETWEEN
The crosstown bus,
hanging on to the metal bar,
a man with an upside-down newspaper
whistling “My Girl,”
winding through Central Park,
trees heavy with snow,
I wonder
how many people,
like Sam, the homeless man,
are living outside tonight,
what’s happened
to the man with AIDS in the park,
if James is telling Dad I walked out on him,
if Dad defends me, or whether he says
something to Mom.
Off the bus, wet toes sting numb
from the walk down Lex,
all the way to Chloe’s place.
We sit on the fire escape.
The whole way here
I planned to tell her
everything.
But her eyes look bloodshot.
Hands, wringing.
Tells me she was up too late
with some new guy.
She lights a cigarette, relaxes a bit.
Peering into her leftover mascara-smeared eyes,
it looks like she’s
coming apart,
like everything else.
I open my mouth to tell her but
the words stick
to the sides of my throat.
In the space between she whispers
a secret:
Dylan told her that he likes me likes me.
I ask her if she’s kidding,
ask why she’s saying like,
as if we’re sixth graders.
She slaps my shoulder,
I slap hers back,
send her cig flying,
burying itself—
like all our secrets—
in the old black snow.
WINTER’S GLAZE
In Peer Mentorship,
the theme is bullying.
One girl apologizes to another
for writing “Slut” on her locker
in seventh grade,
another says girls can get away with
bullying because they don’t punch,
they just throw words or
give the cold shoulder—
ignore.
My coleader Michael turns to me
like I should have something to say,
some advice to give,
but everything I can think of
is a cliché.
So I pick one,
mutter it.
I tune them out,
look outside,
windows wiped with winter’s glaze,
count the floating spots,
till it’s all just one big haze.
CHAOS
Later,
the Yearbook advisor finds me in the hallway.
Says we need to talk,
practically drags me to her office.
Says that she knows about the field day collage,
that the rest of the staff met the sports pages deadline,
that they’re taking care of all the Senior pages,
she asks me what’s going on,
if I care about Yearbook anymore.
My heart aches looking at
the old yearbooks,
the stacks of layout sheets.
But I tell her the truth:
What’s the point of celebrating all this
if things can change so quickly—
She says
this is my one warning,
if I don’t start showing leadership,
I will be asked to step down from my position.
She leaves me in the room,
alone,
and I toss all the layouts onto the floor.
There’s no order in space;
only
chaos.
THOUGHTS ORBIT
I.
Dylan finds me around the corner with Chloe,
hands me something wrapped in newspaper.
Happy Valentine’s Day scribbled in Sharpie.
I open it: a joint
and a Phish bootleg from New Year’s.
II.
Home,
click in the tape,
remember last Valentine’s Day,
Adam took me to J. G. Melon for dinner,
bought me yellow roses.
Wonder if maybe he could be there for me now.
I call Adam and say
my dad is sick
to a ring that no one answers.
III.
Lock myself in the bathroom,
light a candle,
take two puffs from the joint.
Thoughts orbit
until I settle on one:
Call Dylan,
ask him to cut out early
from school
tomorrow.
BARELY SWERVING
Streets covered in snow.
Dylan says we should ski down the West Side.
The ultimate cutting.
We jet after Astro.
On the bus he says
he feels like something is up with me,
that he’s here if I need to talk,
I’ve always been such a good listener,
he holds my hand.
His fingers are cold and bony.
I tell him I don’t want to talk—
just ski.
He says sometimes not talking
is better anyway.
He squeezes my hand again.
Like I’m going to make out with him or something.
We clip our boots into our skis,
use our poles to navigate city blocks.
A station wagon stops short.
I barely swerve around it.
He grabs my elbow, cheeks red
as his winter jacket.
Snow stuck to his hair, peeking out of
his woolly hat.
Tells me I need to be careful.
I tell him actually he does,
throw a snowball at his head.
I think about playing tag with him at recess,
how he would always let me win.
For a minute,
I almost tell him the truth.
But the light flicks
I go,
touch his shoulder,
say you’re it.
We ski down the West Side,
not thinking about the school I’m missing,
Yearbook, my parents, my sister,
just move across the city
as the snow falls
blurring the beige lines
of every
single
standing
building.
SOLAR FLARE
Mom, Dad, the couch,
Dad says the school called.
Where have you been?
I ask him Why does it matter?
I’m a Second Semester Senior,
who cares what I do?
He asks what’s happened to me.
Who am I?
I say I could ask the same of him.
Mom pats his knee, strokes his hair.
Tells me not to walk away.
I laugh, tell her she’s one to talk.
I pass April drawing a sign in her room:
SILENCE = DEATH
it says.
I slam my bedroom door with a flash,
a solar flare
burning on
the surface of the sun.
HOT WATER
Next morning,
James in the kitchen,
white rice in a red pot.
He smells like cigarettes,
black hair sticking up.
I grab a bowl.
Life cereal.
A spoon.
He says I’ve got a birthday coming up,
asks if I want any rice.
I roll my eyes.
Who eats rice for breakfast?
He says he’s making it for Dad.
Mom had to work,
Dad’s been up all night,
in the bathroom.
Dad used to hold my hair back
when I was sick.
Now James is up all night with him.
I pour the milk.
Tell James he doesn’t need to take care of Dad.
He says he wants to, he loves him too.
I don’t give him a chance to say more,
just throw my spoon,
full bowl,
into the sink.
Rice boils over as I leave.
DIZZYING ME
A few days later, swirling down the hallway toward Astronomy,
I hear a sophomore say it:
Her dad’s HIV Positive.
But how? He’s married.
Are they going to get divorced?
Does her mom have it?
They must be scared.
I’d be, like, grossed out.
Did you hear?
Isn’t that awful?
All these questions dizzying me,
but I have one of my own:
How do they know?
My breath comes quick, my head spins,
and I bump clear into Chloe.
CORNERED
She’s been crying.
Her turquoise eyes shining.
She pulls me into the corner of the hallway,
asks why I didn’t tell her.
My insides shrink,
all I can think to say is I didn’t know how.
She asks did I think she couldn’t handle it,
that she wouldn’t understand or be helpful?
I shake my head no, that’s not it.
But I don’t say anything
except I’m sorry.
We stand in strained silence,
then the Yearbook advisor
taps me on the shoulder.
WHAT’S FAIR
Chloe knows.
Everyone knows.
April. April told everyone
is all I can think
as the advisor guides me
to her office.
Again.
She says I haven’t shown I care at all,
I can no longer be yearbook editor.
It’s not fair to the rest of the staff,
they can’t have someone in charge
who doesn’t want to be.
Exhausted, I say fine,