Free Skyscraping by Cordelia Jensen

Gatorade.
    Mom puts Dad’s hat on.
    James grabs him a drink.
    As we walk,
    I see that girl again
    with her father,
    and I notice
    another man with them now,
    and a woman.
    Flanking them.
    She looks at me,
    and sort of waves.
    I sort of wave back.
    Two families
    in reflection.
    III.
    On Riverside,
    past our own apartment building,
    rain threatens but then
    the sky settles back
    into baby blue.
    James shouting,
Fight back! Fight AIDS!
    We join in.
    Dylan and Chloe compete
    to see who can yell the loudest.
    There’s no rainbow in the sky
    but I wave my flag high.
    April grins,
    holding her crystal necklace
    into the sun,
    where it splashes
    its own tiny rainbow
    onto my arm.

SUMMER

FIREWORKS
    Last quarter moon,
    Dad still hanging on.
    Forty-two days longer than they said he would.
    Can he make it longer still?
    To graduation?
    Beyond?
    Open my Astro textbook,
    search for an answer,
    stare at photo after photo of nebulas.
    They may only be gas shells
    produced by dying stars—
    a star’s last wish—
    but they look like
    fireworks,
    red, purple clouds
    of hope—
    a
yes
    suspended
    in a wide-open
    sky.

WATCH IT FLY
    Yearbook’s out.
    Grab Chloe, to the stairwell,
    flip through it together.
    The front page quote, my idea, still reads:
    When we look to the stars
    we are looking back in time . . .
    Cliques sit in star clusters,
    faculty fly in rocket ships,
    whole grades in constellations.
    I’m not listed as editor,
    or even on staff,
    but my ideas
    sparkle and light up
    the pages.
    I know, in a small way, I
    helped make
    something
    lasting.
    I carry a small rainbow flag in my pocket,
    the one Dad held during the Walk.
    Tell Chloe
    I have to go
    somewhere alone,
    I’m okay.
    When I get there,
    use my old key.
    Sit down at that long white counter.
    Open the drawer.
    Take a minute to
    sort the paper clips
    from the tacks
    from the erasers.
    Then, go to the yearbooks,
    and next to the spine of the 1976 edition,
    I stick in the tiny flag.
    Watch the rainbow
    throw its color all over
    that white room.

IN A FLASH
    Prom night.
    Put up my hair.
    Put my dangly earrings on.
    Step into my blue dress.
    Dad says I look like a mermaid.
    Mom takes pictures.
    The mirror, like a camera,
    freezes time in a flash,
    catching all of us
    inside of it
    for one brief
    moment.

ORION’S BELT
    I.
    Last year,
    on the dance floor,
    I twirled in,
    Adam spun me out.
    Tonight, I focus on Dylan.
    Notice for the first time
    a Saturn ring of yellow
    surrounding the soft brown
    of his eyes.
    II.
    At the after-prom party,
    Adam and I
    kept to ourselves.
    We sipped Sprite,
    toasted to summertime
    while everyone else
    cheered and clinked
    glasses of champagne.
    Tonight we take a limo
    to a classmate’s beach house.
    On the way—Dylan’s hand
    on my leg, casually, like it’s always
    been there. Chloe, in a pink slip dress,
    with some new guy
    who seems nicer than the others.
    The air’s just warm enough
    to roll down the windows,
    stars blinking at us all the way
    to the beach.
    III.
    My head spins
    as Dylan and I lie
    back in the grass
    on the front lawn.
    Dylan draws
    small circles
    on my inner
    wrist.
    My dad’s lived
    six weeks more
    than they said he would.
    I say it twice.
    The second time
    a tear rolls down
    my cheek.
    He kisses
    it
    away.
    Pointing up to the sky,
    he traces Orion’s Belt
    with his finger,
    I grab it
    when it comes back down.
    He draws me in,
    I don’t pull away.

BIRDS IN PARADISE
    The next day,
    high heels in hand,
    Dylan’s tux jacket on,
    home to find
    Mom and Dad
    in the living room,
    sewing machine out.
    Him hunched over it, stitching.
    Her in a sea of fabrics
    and feathers.
    Mom said they decided
    to make a costume together.
    Just for fun.
    I watch Dad press his foot on the pedal.
    I watch Mom cut.
    They argue over the true hue of chartreuse.
    Laugh about the thunderstorm during the parade the year they met.
    They work for hours.
    April helps me make dinner.
    When they’re done,
    a mask of petals,
    tail of