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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
    involving the explosion—
    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 into 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