That must be a bad-news rule.
One person never brings
the worst news
alone.
The whole time
I’m waiting in the lounge,
I keep expecting
Jonah to knock
at the door—
dressed in jeans
and a T-shirt—
having somehow convinced
his doctors
that they have gotten
the wrong patient—
that it was all
a big mistake.
Town Facts
Dad was born here
in Maddigan,
in a farmhouse
on the edge of town.
It burned to the ground
when I was little.
Now it’s just a field
with tall grass.
That’s where the house was,
Dad told us,
every time we drove by.
It was the same
with other places in town.
The bakery
used to be a barbershop.
The pizza place
was a shoe store.
The way he talked,
everything was once
something else,
with only Dad to remember
what it was.
Jonah would joke,
Is this going to be on the exam, Dad?
I didn’t pay much attention
to Dad’s town facts.
Now, if I want to know,
he’s not here to ask.
Pedaling
The nurses call it
range of motion.
Vivian takes Jonah’s
arms and legs
through the motions
he used to make
on his own.
One motion
for his legs
looks like he’s pedaling
a bike.
It was Jonah
who taught me
how to ride my bike.
The bike had
old training wheels,
so bent
they barely touched the ground.
Dad tried first.
He gave the bike a hard push,
and yelled,
You got it, Liv. You got it.
I didn’t get it.
I won’t let you fall,
Jonah said,
and ran next to me,
cheering,
Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal.
Every time I swayed,
he was there
to grab the handlebars,
until my feet learned
to do it
on their own.
Vivian slow-motions
Jonah’s legs.
Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal.
Snowstorm
At school
I stop hearing the teachers’ voices.
It sounds like buzzing in my ears,
all the words blending together
into one big GRAH
coming out of their mouths.
I stop taking notes.
What’s the use in writing
GRAH GRAH GRAH?
Behind my book in geometry class
I make snowflakes.
Fold and fold, fold and fold,
and cut out little triangles.
There are triangles in geometry.
GRAH GRAH GRAH.
Mr. Sommers points to them
on the blackboard.
A girl next to me raises her hand
and answers.
BLIH BLIH BLIH
My paper snowflakes are astonishing.
Open all the folds and LOOK—
by snipping away some of the paper
I created something that is more
than just a piece of paper.
How can there be more when there is less?
Mr. Sommers is standing behind my seat
admiring my snowflakes
or not.
I see him remember Jonah,
the boy in his geometry class
two years ago—
wavy brown hair like mine,
and blue eyes instead of my
muddy ones,
the school’s star
pole-vaulter and triple jumper.
My whole life
I’m always two grades
behind Jonah.
I lift up a snowflake.
One for you, Mr. Sommers, I say,
and he takes it
as if he can’t
say no to me.
My best friend, Rainie,
says it’s illegal
to put things
that are not mail
into a mailbox,
but I stuff the snowflakes
in Clay’s mailbox
at the end of his driveway.
Our Number 23 mailbox
faces his 24.
I was ten
and Jonah was twelve
when Clay moved in
across the street.
Jonah saw
a boy his age,
skateboarded
down our driveway
across the road
and up Clay’s driveway
to introduce himself.
Clay’s hair was
lighter than brown
darker than blond
and he was just a little bit taller
than Jonah.
It was fall
and Jonah
picked a pear off a tree
on Clay’s front lawn
and handed it to him.
Jonah and Clay
started talking,
and I didn’t think Clay
noticed me
standing in front of our house,
but suddenly
he held up the hand
that had the pear,
and waved it at me.
That’s the way it was
with Clay and me—
he was Jonah’s friend,
but he never acted like
I wasn’t there.
I hope it is Clay and not his parents
who find the storm.
Gwen
People in town write letters to the paper.
“A man has a right to have guns in his house.”
Even Gwen has a gun—
a small one she keeps in her purse.
No talking back to your mama now,
Jonah said to Clay,
after Gwen told the boys
she carried a handgun
to protect herself,
she’s packing heat.
What color is it?
I asked Clay when I heard Jonah
tease him.
It’s just a gun, he said,
they don’t come in colors.
I didn’t ask him what she was afraid of.
Sometimes my hands
make themselves into guns,
but they are careful
not to point at anything.
Straws
I take photos of Jonah
with my phone.
The back of his neck,
his toes,
his fingers curled in on themselves.
Never the whole Jonah.
Mom says NO
to posting them
on his Instagram,
even though this is
his status now.
Many parts that add up
to his new whole.
Jonah has a special machine
to lift him out of bed.
I call it his Trapeze.
Ready to be an acrobat, Jonah?
Your Trapeze is here.
I think his eyes shine brighter
when he is suspended
over the bed.
Does he imagine
his body has grown wings?
I reach out
on the cafeteria line.
Instead of food
I fill my tray with straws.
I twist the plastic straws
into eight-legged spiders—
lots of them.
My friends laugh at the spiders.
Dangle them in each other’s faces.
Piper, Justine, Rainie talking
Plah Ha Plah Ha Plah
I can hear the sounds
but not the words.
I imagine that is how Jonah
hears the world now.
Snowflake
That boy across the street
sure has a fascination
with this house,