Adam, back from Jamaica,
left me something in the lobby:
a seashell barrette, a note.
In my room I read:
Sorry for how I acted last time.
Hope to see you next time I’m home.
The shells are so shiny,
like they’re still
underwater.
I reread his note.
Feel seasick. Confused.
Not sure what he wants
from me, what I want
from him.
My bedroom phone rings.
Dylan says he’s got Phish tickets for New Year’s.
In Massachusetts.
Dad and Mom, together, on the couch.
He’s reading I, Claudius,
she’s got her glasses on, tongue on lip,
drawing plans for her new glass animal farm.
I don’t ask them if I can go to a concert
or on a trip with friends.
Not wanting a fight, not wanting a no,
just ask if I can go to Chloe’s for New Year’s.
Mom leans into his shoulder,
Dad nods his head, yes,
okay, I can go.
For a minute they look like the figures from my drawing,
perfect, average, normal,
lying, folded, under my pillow.
For a minute, I think about grabbing April,
sitting with them.
But then I remember Hubble’s Law:
The closer a galaxy is to us,
the faster it’s moving away.
I can’t be part of a family
that’s built on lies,
they think they can pull me closer,
now that things are out in the open,
but
I’ve already
drifted
away.