When the traffic light turns red, we cross.
They are
waiting in cars
wanting to move on.
I am
walking on air
wanting time to stand still.
Leo’s Lunchroom
One gentle scoot
into the booth
side by side
smileblushbump
two hips collide.
Like atom bombs
flatten countries,
my skin collides
with his kinetic energy
and lands
in a mushy clump of
happilyeverafter.
Take that, Antoine Lavoisier!
Another waiter
and an order later,
fed and full
sodasoupsandwich
X holds his napkin
folds a beautiful bird
hands it to me.
X:Your first gift.
Me:First?
Will there be others?
One gentle scoot
into the root
of my
headhandsheart.
What I Learn in Walking
After lunch,
X shows me a storefront window
stained with graffiti.
His dad’s barbershop years ago—
broken barber chairs
torn seats
missing headrests
tipped over
brown squares on the wall where
mirrors hung
now gone
destroyed
ruined.
Me:What happened?
X:Cancer.
The Cancers
I thought I was the only one.
I tell him about Mom—I was in grade school.
And Jane—My dad quickly remarried.
He tells me about his dad—Died when I was in junior high.
And his mom—Financing my father’s treatments drained us.
My mom. His dad.
We do the math—
Our parents died within months of
each other.
We were strangers,
suffering
silently
at opposite ends of the city.
What I Learn in Sitting
A temporary ride with
permanent smiles.
Our bus trip to my house.
From this moment on, I will discover
art
life
people
experiences
myself
whether or not my suffocating father approves.
X:Life’s a mystery.
Me:Yes. A mystery.
And then I see how
studying
obeying
pushing myself
trying to be
everything Dad wants from me is just silly.
The bus spits me out on my street.
It’s the perfect afternoon
with secrets sealing my heart to his.
Kismet, our connection.
Before I’ve even made it up the stairs, a text.
Cutie.
I gush.
Luckily, he can’t see my face
as red
pink
crimson
burgundy
as the canvas in my room.
Girls’ Night
April wears all black
fingernails
lipstick
eyeliner
and hair
newly dyed
from its constant state of mousy brown.
The gods of Goth have taken her.
April:Just wanted to mix things up.
She’s lying.
I smell a Ralph.
Me:You look good.
I’m lying.
I wait for the Ralph.
But I can’t hold it in any longer,
blurting out—
I think I’m in love!
Change of Plans
Just like that
in the midst of crossing the street
and retrieving her bus card,
April stops
swings around
switches direction.
Change of plans!
With one whip of her arm,
Whoosh!
we’re in a cab
heading toward my future.
Lady Elba, Pt. I
A red neon open sign shines
in a black window.
Dark, shady, Goth-esque.
A fortune teller leads us inside.
I feel crazy.
This is crazy.
She looks crazy.
Why are we here?
Has April gone crazy?
Pink tinted lenses
hair piled atop her head
like an uneven stack of plates.
This could topple any second.
Lady Elba.
Her bony hand grabs mine I
followstumbletrip
my way into my future.
Lady Elba:Let’s see what’s going on …
She lays a hand over my heart.
Lady Elba: … in here.
What’s going on in here is a mixed bag of tricks.
Will she pull out the right trick?
She sits,
doesn’t speak.
Lady Elba?
I shake,
don’t believe.
Does April?
Placing my aura in her presence,
opens my palms
clasps my hands
so different from X’s grasp.
In spite of myself, I’m curious.
Lady Elba
lays out the cards
she tsks and hmms
tsk tsk tsk
hmm
like a sprinkler
or a typewriter—then gasps.
April:What?
We lean in.
A clock chimes.
Lady Elba:Something big …
She stares me down,
unnerving me with her crazy-lady look.
Lady Elba:Something big is …
Is … ?
Is … ?
Lady Elba: … on its way to your soul.
Her eyes sparkle.
Words whisper.
Lady Elba:Brace yourself, my dear.
The creeped-out side of me wrestles with the hopeful one.
April:How romantic!
I doubt.
Although, I wonder …
How Big Is Big?
Like summer fling big?
Soul mate big?
Getting-married-moving-to-Paris-growing-old-together big?
Big enough to wrap its arms around me?
Bigger than a kiss?
How big is big?
Can it quiet Queen Vanilla?
Reverse the dying process?
Heighten the hues of paint on a canvas?
How big is big?
Can it eliminate anger? Bond father to daughter?
Cure cancer?
Is big more powerful than a political promise?
Greater than gossip with Gavin?
Huger than Angie Hippo?
Can it wipe out a conservation of mass with a wave of its wand?
How big is big?
And when it hits my heart,
will it explode?
How big
is
big?
Sunday Morning when
I Come Home from April’s
Dad’s
suited up
pacing in the living room
planning his position
practicing his speech.
Miguel’s
following along
revising, rewording,
researching who said what when
and how to rephrase it.
Melanie’s
in PJs and mismatched socks
scratching the peanut butter
in her hair.
Jane’s
uptight
rushing into the den
grabbing papers, rubbing her neck
cursing as she throws
couch cushions on the floor.
Jane:Where’d I put that damn necklace?
I
take Jane’s usual superior tone.
Me:Mothers shouldn’t use such language.
My disapproval of Jane fills me with memories of Mom.
At least mine didn’t.
I
whisper while
covering Melanie’s ears
en route to the bathroom
to clean her hair.
Melanie:What’s a primercy?
Me:Primary.
I tell her it’s a silly day where adults
wave things in the air
dress in costumes and pretend
they’re so important.
Vote Henderson!
Me:It’s like Disneyworld for grown-ups.
Only, there’s no Mickey.
Jane peeks her head in.
Her perfectly lined lips
smudged ever so slightly.
Me:I’m cleaning Melanie’s filthy hair.
My inflection suggests Jane should be ashamed.
She doesn’t seem to notice
her mothering skills
taking a backseat to my father’s big day
as they
try to persuade more chumps to
Vote Henderson!
while their daughter marches
around the house—
mismatched socks,
messy face,
matted hair.
I don’t mind watching Melanie.
It beats going out on the campaign trail.
Me and Melanie, we
might just be
two peas
in the same political pod.
Miguel reminds Dad that it’s time,
he’s prompt like that.
Dad kisses our foreheads.
Dad:Wish me luck.
Melanie:Luck!
Melanie stares at me after they leave.
Does she know her mom’s alive
and mine’s not?
Fade to Nothing—Jane
She
fades like the shade of gray
into the night
only, it’s day.
What can you possibly give me?
She
wades like the waters of Lake Michigan
into my room
uninvited.
Why are you here?
She
preys like the panthers of the Serengeti
over my dad in
Mom’s absence.
Who do you think you are?
She
plays like the perfect mother of Melanie
not me
in Mom’s house.
When will you leave?
She
remains nothing
to me.
With Melanie
Push me!
We swing.
Lift me!
We teeter-totter.
Hold me!
We slide.
I support Melanie on the monkey bars.
Only yesterday, I was Melanie and Mom was me:
swingingslidingsupporting
I love my sister, still, she’s
a constant reminder that Dad has moved on:
another marriageanother childanother woman
Making Mom a memory ofanother time.
I tell Melanie about Mom.
How my momlooked.
How my mommoved.
Her gracefulsway.
Her dancer’sstance.
How we playedhopscotch.
How we burntkettle corn.
How we collected seashells.
Painting each one a color of the rainbow.
Our lucky stash.
Melanie
thinks the stories are funny, inspiring.
Melanie
decides we should collect rocks
and paint each one a color of the rainbow.
Just like Mom and I used to do.
Melanie:Me and you.
Me:Just us two.
Rocks
Across the park,
we scour the grass for rocks—
flat ones
white ones
round ones
smooth ones
big ones
tiny ones
lopsided ones
ones that past the test,
we put in our pockets.
In the park,
a guy’s propped up—
smoking
drinking
grimy
yellow
eyes aglow
strung-out
one 40 oz. bottle,
he puts in his pocket.
Guy:Hey!
Must get Melanie.
Guy:Hey! You, girl.
Must get out of here.
Guy:Sam!
He knows my name?
I freeze, feeling like I might throw up breakfast.
I study his glassy eyes, skinny body:
The guy talking to X when we met for coffee.
The guy who took off the minute I arrived.
Why is he …
out here
strung out
friends with X?
I do not know
but I grab Melanie
and we go.
Missy
A kitten follows us home
meowing like Little Orphan Annie.
Meow.
Born on the streets
incapable mother
tossed from one alley to the next.
Meow. Meow.
Life of despair and hardship
all alone.
Meow.
Who can refuse such a sad story?
We watch it
cry and pace
sit in the middle of the sidewalk
watching us
watching it.
Melanie:Think it’s a girl?
I shrug.
Melanie:I want her to be a girl.
We decide it’s a girl.
Melanie names her Missy.
Melanie:So Mommy has a Missy.
Her rationale makes me smile.
I place milk on the back porch.
Melanie:Nighty-night, Missy.
She says,
holding Angie Hippo.
Phases
Missy moves in
Dad’s campaign moves forward
X moves around Hex
waiting tablestaking orderspouring coffee.
I never ask about the guy in the park
Maybe I overacted
I watch X’s
long armsflouncy hairwinks.
He knows all kinds of people
coming and
going at Hex
interesting in their own way
scruffy studentsaging hipstersyoung
businessmen.
Visiting X invigorates me
his friends make me feel less ordinary
inspiring
new thoughtsnew ideasnew paintings.
No longer drawing pale girls and soft hues
I choose
darker imagesedgier colorsbolder strokes.
I’m like April and her Goth phase
only, I don’t want to come out of this phase
todaytomorrowever.
Rockets
I bring X
banana candies from a corner store
mini handmade paintings
giant grins.
He hands me
a lyric he heard from his roommate
drawing he found
poem copied from one of the French masters.
Most times,
I wait for his shift to end.
He walks me home.
When we walk, we fall
into a rhythm
like the first time we passed his car.
Today,
he points to the Oldsmobile’s rocket emblem.
I remember his initial flirty touch.
When I blush—
pink
burgundy
crimson
He puts his palms against my cheeks to
cool them
feel them
and my heart takes off
like a rocket to Mars.
First Kiss
On the sidewalk, my arms go limp. My neck tingles from his touch. The little hairs stand at the nape of my neck. The leaves rattle in the trees. My heart rattles in my chest. Fingers weave through hair. Thoughts run through head. Tingles surge through body.
He wraps me
close
closer
closest to him yet.
Something big is on its way …
He leans down
close
closer
closest to my face.
Something big is on its way to my soul.
His lips move, forming words. I’m unsure what they say. I cannot hear with the ringing in my ears. And the pounding in my chest. And the quickening of my breath. Wondering how this will happen. What it will feel like. Where do we go from here? That’s when they meet.
His lips are velvety, plump,
mahoganycherryscarletvermillionmarooncardinal
red
like a stroke across my painting
red
like a fireball in the heart of a warzone
red
like fingernails fresh from polish
red
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