walk out.
Punishment only works if you care.
OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE STREET
I bolt out of school,
walk fast to the bus stop
past the diner, the Bagelry.
April calls out to me, close behind,
asks why I didn’t wait.
I whip around, say
how dare you,
the whole school knows now,
about our family.
I’m not ashamed
is all she says.
We board the bus,
she keeps talking:
Just because our family is different, doesn’t mean it’s bad.
I look around at all the people,
all I see is judgment.
I tell April I got kicked off Yearbook.
How Chloe is upset with me
for not telling her first.
Can’t imagine what Dylan must think.
April tells me she’s sorry but I need to start
letting people in and stop fighting.
I tell her to stop
lecturing me.
We walk home
on opposite sides of the street,
hundreds of people walk past me,
but I’ve never felt more
alone.
HOLD FAST TO THIS TIME
Sunday morning, a note slipped under my door:
Dearest Miranda,
Happy 18th Birthday!
You’re all grown up.
I’m sorry for how hard things have been.
Hold fast to this time,
you only have one Senior Year.
Celebrate!
Love,
Dad
STREETS OF HEAVEN
MARCH 21, 1994
The night of my birthday,
Chloe invites me to come over
but I say thanks, no.
I watch the Oscars, alone.
We used to watch together,
as a family,
place bets.
But April’s with James,
volunteering at the Gay Men’s Health Crisis.
Mom drawing, Dad asleep.
Flip on the TV.
The red carpet, the gowns.
Who will be the winners:
Leonardo DiCaprio for What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?
Winona Ryder for The Age of Innocence?
Whoopi Goldberg jokes,
Schindler’s List wins almost everything.
Tom Hanks wins for Philadelphia,
says:
The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels . . .
They number a thousand
for each one of the red ribbons
that we wear here tonight . . .
I make a wish,
push OFF.
The TV flashes once
before it fades to black.
CONSIDERATION
I have never been sent to the principal’s office.
Not until today.
My teachers want to talk about my performance in school.
Mr. R says I’ve shown very little leadership in Peer Mentorship,
the Yearbook advisor says how disappointed she is,
only Mr. Lamb reports
I’m doing well in Astronomy.
The principal says that if I don’t shape up,
they will have to take disciplinary action,
that it could jeopardize my college applications.
They also say they know about my situation.
That Mom called them to explain,
told them they should take that into consideration.
They say they’re sorry but it’s no excuse for my behavior.
I was always so responsible, such a good student, such a joiner.
I tell them I just don’t see the point anymore.
I tell them about Hubble’s Law:
Things seem close, but really they are far away.
They say I should see the school psychologist,
maybe she can help me.
Get back on track.
Find my way back.
Before I can respond,
the bell rings.
SUPERNOVA
Astro,
I scan the room for watchful eyes.
Take a seat,
Dylan whispers happy belated birthday,
asks how I am,
says he’s left several messages,
he’s heard, he’s really sorry.
Tell him I’m fine, try to focus.
Mr. Lamb defines supernovas:
A rare phenomenon
The school secretary marches in,
of most of the material in a star,
resulting in an extremely bright—
hands him a note, leaves.
short-lived object that emits
vast amounts of energy—
He reads it.
Mira, come up here.
I can feel all of their stares,
walk quickly to the front.
Could the colleges know how badly I’m doing already?
Mr. Lamb’s face floats above
in a cloud of fluorescent light,
he whispers
Mira, your dad’s in the emergency room.
Go get your sister, here’s your pass.
Then, voice booming:
Class, turn to assignment 5B, and start working.
WHITEOUT
The white of the hospital blasts
as the dark gray elevator opens.
April chews the side of her lip.
I grab her hand.
We march
down the hallway
caught in a whiteout
our only real guide
vanished.
SKYSCRAPING
We open
the closed door:
Dad, greasy hair,
in a blue-checkered gown.
Tubes cometing outward
from his arms.
James stroking Dad’s needled hand,
sobbing,
like this is his darkest white place.
Mom fingers one of her dark curls,
rests her hand on Dad’s shoulder.
He looks up at her, nods.
She looks into his eyes,
tells us the HIV has progressed
to full-blown AIDS—
Dad has contracted TB
and the beginning stages of Kaposi’s sarcoma,
which causes lesions.
He has just a few,
nothing internal.
Dad coughs, reaches up to hold Mom’s hand,
while James, head down, still strokes the other.
Because of all this, they’ve given him
one month to live.
The clock hands spin.
The truth tick-tocks:
school, Dad’s life,
everything’s ending at once.
Dad starts talking but I can’t listen:
All this time I knew things were bad
but he still seemed somewhat stable.
I notice Dad’s toes peeking out
from beneath the hospital blankets
and for the first time I see
a small lesion on the underside
of his pinky.
I try
to escape,
move the bars off the windows
with my mind—
I jump into the cold
weave through countless buildings
dive in
to other people’s windows
I scrape the sky, scouting for warmer air
fling past rooftops and fly.
SPRING
INDIGO GLASS
A month:
the time it takes
a season to change,
less than half the summer,
the time it takes a baby
to learn day from night.
It’s taken less time than that
for my life to
break.
To think of losing him
feels like losing
the ground.
Here, white bottles
of lost hope
filled with herbs
still sit,
gathering dust,
on the indigo glass
coffee table.
I line them now in a row.
Wipe their dust.
Place them one by one in a bag,
head back to the hospital.
A month is enough time
for the moon to fade
and be remade.
But not long enough
to say I’m sorry or
goodbye.
UPSIDE-DOWN KINGDOM
Fight my own impulse to run the other way, fly.
Dad, broken lips, bruised arms, hospital bed.
A rough white washcloth, James pats his head,
reads to him from his favorite book, Don Quixote.
I shift in the doorway.
All of spring break spent catching up on homework,
taking turns caring for Dad,
I’ve been reading him Alice in Wonderland,
she almost drowns in a river of her own tears,
lost, confused in an upside-down kingdom,
something he used to read
to us before bed.
James walks out, nods at me,
passes me the rough cloth, a baton,
and, like Alice, given no choice
but to bathe in her own tears,
I take it—
trade places with him,
the cloudy white room of
my own upside-down kingdom,
with cloth,
bag of herbs,
tape recorder
in hand, I wade in.
RECORDING SESSION
March
SESSION SIX
Dad, I have what I need for school.
But I’d like to keep asking you questions, just because.
(Coughs)
Okay, let’s keep at it.
What do you have in your sack there?
The herbs.
Maybe April’s right—maybe they could help.
(Pause)
(More coughing)
Okay.
(Pause)
I’ll think about it.
(Pause)
Dad, what would you like to do . . . with your time?
Finish reading The Byzantine Empire. Cook. Create.
Spend time with the people I love.
(Pause)
Dad, I’m sorry for—
I know, Miranda. It’s okay. Me too . . .
(Coughs)
Could you pass me a tissue?
Sure.
(Coughs)
Mira, you, you have to—
(Coughs)
make a future you are proud of—
Dad.
Life’s short, Miranda. Make it matter.
Okay.
I know.
(Pause)
I will.
LIT BRIGHT
FULL MOON, 24 DAYS LEFT
i don’t take a cab
the end of March air coats me
it is cool breezy and my jacket is thin
but after the hospital i just want to walk and
savor time the moon is full follow it down
the city streets one month and almost a week’s
passed already Dad’s words about my future en-
circle me i know i need to use the time left
to grow love from something waning
to something waxing, watered,
bright, round, full
ANOTHER LAYER
Dad home in a few days,
I sit and do homework.
Time seems to slow
if you focus on words, facts, solving problems.
Interrupted by April, crying.
I rub her back, tell her
I brought him all the bottles.
Told him I think he should take them.
She smiles through tears,
goes out to see Gloria.
Mom’s doing laundry, sorting, folding.
Guess we all have our ways of coping.
Wander into the kitchen, wonder what Dad
would cook if he were home.
Pull ingredients: Onions. Tomatoes. Noodles.
Dice onions evenly. Measure. Pour.
Brown the meat. Pink fades,
a nest of oil fills the pan.
Move the cheese along the grater,
Mom walks in.
She asks how Dad was today,
if I’m ready for school tomorrow.
I say he seemed okay, ignore the school question.
Keep grating.
She says she wants to answer the question I asked
months ago:
why she had children.
I pause.
Keep my head down. Continue.
Chop tomatoes, pieces pool in juice,
seeds swim and scatter.
She says she wanted to do things differently than her own mom,
says she fell in love with Dad fast,
wanted him, only him, to be the father of her children.
She says wanting children is different than having them.
I stir the onions in with the tomatoes.
We scared her. Our need. He was better with us, always.
First layer into the pan. Neatly laid.
Noodles, meat, tomatoes, cheese.
I know I’ve made mistakes, missed a lot, but
I’d like to be your mother now, if you’ll let me,
she says, touching my shoulder.
I shift slightly under the weight of her hand, swallow down
the lump in my throat,
don’t say anything, just cook—
she watches, stays by my side,
I add another layer to the clear glass pan.
SIXTY MINUTES
Lasagna’s perfectly done—
crisp along the edges,
soft center,
but Dad’s not here to eat it.
April’s still out with Gloria.
Mom and I sit at the table,
silent, paralyzed.
We leave the lasagna untouched.
Move to the TV.
60 Minutes is on.
Giuliani speaks about cleaning up
the crime in the city,
about the power of individual responsibility,
then a story
on the National Institutes of Health
funding new grants for AIDS research.
Mom murmurs about time.
They say with new money
they will have a better chance of
finding a cure.
Mom making an effort,
Dad considering the herbs,
April’s hopeful eyes—
I look into the Sunday night sky—
lights blink, planes glide
above boats slowly floating upriver
alongside cars zooming fast, uptown and down,
next to a park holding people—
time moves past me,
so many lives
suspended
inside this one moment,
my heart beating fast, breath shallow,
I can hardly feel
the difference between hope
and fear.
A REVERSE CRYSTAL BALL
First day back,
April and I march in,
locked arms.
Quick hugs from Dylan, Chloe.
They ask me what happened, is everything okay,
I say not really,
I’ll tell them more after school.
I focus on my classes.
After school, surprise:
Adam’s there.
I find Chloe and Dylan,
tell them I’ll catch up with them tomorrow.
They give me a look,
turn, leave.
Guilt flickers,
but Adam’s smiling big at me,
holding a container of ice cream.
Looking at him’s like looking into the past.
A reverse crystal ball.
For a minute,
so easy to forget
everything that’s happened.
Adam used to be something solid,
maybe if I let him,
he can be that for me again.
He whispers in my ear
how much he missed me,
he brought me mint chocolate chip—
my favorite.
Ask him why he’s here.
He says he has some exams,
studies better at home.
Says he felt bad
he missed my birthday,
asks what I did to celebrate.
I mumble nothing really as
he hands me the ice cream.
I cup it till
it frosts
my already chilled hands.
SQUINTING UP
We sit on the steps
of the Museum of Natural History,
eating ice cream in the cold.
A spring day that feels like winter.
A toddler runs up the stairs,
his mother carries a stroller.
Her eyes squint up
like they might catch him.
A guy with a plaid ski hat
sells pretzels from a street cart.
Taxis speed down the avenue.
A bit of early moon, purpling the sky.