All of Me Read online

  and as the years roll by,

  the colorful fish

  disappear, one by one.

  The ones left behind

  thrive as best they can,

  but the cool rain

  mixes with the salt;

  the brackish water,

  becomes fresher and fresher.

  Slowly the dinosaurs,

  over a thousand generations,

  turn from dinosaurs

  to lake monsters,

  long and serpentine,

  shorter teeth,

  wider paddles,

  out of space and time,

  until finally,

  this one tiny lake monster

  is the only one left,

  afraid

  of itself,

  lost in a memory

  it can’t understand.

  It dives into

  the loch,

  eight hundred feet down

  so it isn’t seen,

  its bulk too great,

  the fish too small,

  the pike, the char,

  even the stickleback

  runs thin.

  It doesn’t belong here,

  bloated, outdated, long-necked

  and long-toothed,

  its tail swirling in the choppy waters.

  After generations,

  it knows that people

  are staring at it,

  gathering on the shoreline,

  the edge of the castle,

  near the forest,

  to see its murky form

  even as it tries

  to skim trout near

  the surface or see

  the colors swirl

  in the reflections of the sun

  from underneath.

  It misses the light,

  swims the span of the lake

  looking for an opening

  between the worlds,

  a memory inside

  its DNA,

  its soul,

  something more

  that it’s never seen

  but can’t stop looking for.

  Home,

  other creatures like itself.

  It needs to know that

  it isn’t some mistake.

  In the cartoon,

  the people on the boat

  wear yellow raincoats,

  throw a party for Nessie,

  celebrate as the three

  ancient humps arc out of the water,

  and then, in rainbow verse

  across the screen

  for the viewers,

  What do you think?

  The tail of the lake monster

  coils around the words.

  Pick walks over to me,

  I look up from my memory,

  the book clutched tightly in my hands.

  He looks at the pages,

  points to a glossy, fake-looking

  photo of Nessie.

  We should definitely

  have some monsters

  in the game, he says,

  and they should be

  fighting for good.

  Ketosis

  I am eating myself.

  My body fights,

  accumulates ketones,

  fat breaking down,

  starving for carbohydrates,

  sugar, everything it can remember.

  Everything it once knew,

  washed away into waste.

  My body remembers,

  especially my tongue,

  the way the crust of pizza

  marries the cheese and sauce.

  My body remembers

  the juicy splendor

  of an orange cut open,

  the creaminess

  of a banana,

  an apple dipped in honey.

  My body remembers

  a night in the city

  when my father

  handed me a five,

  sent me down the street

  for Hostess cupcakes

  and lemon fruit pies.

  But my body also remembers

  hands that push

  and reach, back and forth,

  because a kid my size can take it.

  My body remembers

  the tetherball court,

  too many names, too many hands,

  too many voices in the circle

  around the game.

  My body remembers

  the crying rage,

  throwing Jay to the ground,

  fist after fist

  and the solid knock

  of knuckles and flesh

  and blood and blond hair

  and wiry braces.

  My body remembers.

  My body is fighting itself,

  and in its desperation,

  it’s eating its fat.

  There Is a Space

  In the morning,

  when I put on my shorts,

  I feel something odd.

  There is a space, no bigger than

  the tip of my pinkie,

  between the waistline of my shorts

  and my body.

  I put my finger inside the space

  and walk outside

  beneath the grape arbor.

  I whisper to myself,

  in a sacred tone,

  It’s working.

  I check all day

  to see if the space is still there.

  How Many Pounds?

  The scale

  lives in the kitchen,

  so on Fridays

  I step onto it

  and write down on a sticky note

  the number it says.

  After one week,

  the number is lower by two.

  Studio Days

  Every day with Pick and Lisa,

  we make art,

  shoot bows and arrows,

  do chores.

  We carry moist clay bricks,

  twenty-five pounds each,

  into stacks at the back

  of the gallery, place them

  where the Artist needs them.

  One brick a week for us.

  We work on our trolls,

  fill shelves

  and empty spaces

  with mischievous creatures.

  At lunch, I eat burgers with no buns,

  and salad, bring cheese-and-meat roll-ups wherever I go.

  Pick and Lisa try to eat like I do.

  I tell them they don’t have to,

  and sometimes they share bags of chips

  or candy, but they try their best

  not to do it around me,

  and I am starting to feel stronger.

  Each week, I weigh myself.

  I slowly watch the numbers change.

  At night we watch the stars swirl

  through the skylight,

  listen to the sounds of people

  walking around town.

  Sometimes we open the studio

  and have art shows.

  We talk about our dreams,

  pretend they are windows into the future.

  We gather at the breakfast table,

  a circle of prophets.

  Lisa talks about a dream

  where I’m wearing a white-and-green

  Hawaiian shirt, and I’m skateboarding

  in a school parking lot.

  In the dream, she says, I am half of myself.

  I smile, try to imagine it,

  and for the first time,

  it feels possible,

  but I wonder

  what it would mean

  if I actually lose half

  of who I am?

  Shore Break

  We go to the beach.

  Lisa teaches us that

  at least once a day

  you have to put your feet

  in the ocean. We lie in the sand

  without towels.

  We learn to bodysurf,

  pulling our heads up and out

 
just before we slam down

  on the churning sand.

  Jorge

  Bolinas Ridge,

  I tell Lisa. We need to do it.

  She smiles, lets the sand

  filter through her fingers.

  Lisa’s eyes squint

  at the sun above me.

  I feel the sand shift behind,

  off-balance.

  Jorge towers there.

  His skin and hair are dark.

  His words are swallowed

  in his smile.

  I heard you say Bolinas Ridge?

  I hike there all the time.

  He talks about

  living here his whole life.

  We ask him lagoon questions

  and about the hippies

  who live in Bolinas.

  He tells us they like

  to remove the highway

  signs to keep people away.

  Sometimes My Father Comes

  Some days

  my father drives out to see us,

  but he won’t stay.

  Sometimes he takes

  a drive with my mother.

  Sometimes, after the drive,

  they stand at the car

  just outside the gate.

  Their voices are drums

  booming without any measure.

  We watch through the gate

  until the giant form of my father

  turns to come in and say good-bye.

  He makes promises.

  We’ll go to the comic store,

  we’ll take a hike near Inverness,

  I’ll show you the elk

  on the peninsula.

  He hugs me.

  My mother stands near the dirt and gravel

  where the Sunbird was parked.

  She won’t come in for a long time.

  Shopping

  One morning,

  we go to the outlet stores.

  I refuse to go in.

  Mom takes Lisa inside.

  I sit in the car,

  the air thickening,

  the heat pushing down

  on the leather seats,

  reading Ogre, Ogre

  by Piers Anthony.

  Smash the half ogre

  is trying to solve

  a vague dissatisfaction

  about himself,

  some discomfort

  lodged in his mind

  and body,

  like the slow tick

  of a faraway clock.

  He decides

  at last

  to seek help.

  Hours (maybe) later,

  Lisa and my mother

  come out of the store,

  bending and swaying

  like apple trees,

  overloaded branches

  with translucent plastic bags

  of clothes and shoes.

  Lisa smiles at me.

  When we reach the nursery,

  they have a fashion show

  in the courtyard.

  Clothes pile up on the wooden floor

  and in front of the huge mirror,

  where Lisa spins in skirts,

  some tight, some overflowing.

  Tight-fitting T-shirts, rifting at the belly,

  and flowering blouses,

  the sculptures looking on

  in tranquil indifference.

  I see her joy,

  and I feel my fire.

  I’ve always liked the way she looks,

  but when I see her so happy

  in her colorful new clothes,

  it feels as if a hand is reaching

  through my stomach

  and into my chest,

  pulling at my heart

  until I can’t breathe.

  I want to tell her something

  about how she looks,

  but I don’t.

  Lisa sings some song into the mirror,

  lifting her hair out of the collar

  of her new pink shirt.

  She turns to her side,

  poses with her chin lowered,

  her blond hair

  falling slightly over her eyes.

  How do I look? she asks.

  My body is burning.

  I walk over to where she is,

  and I stand near the mirror.

  Smile.

  This place, I think, was made for her.

  Lisa looks toward the gate.

  She looks back to me,

  and her steady hands

  land on my shoulders.

  Thank you, she whispers.

  For what? I ask, smiling.

  But she doesn’t answer.

  Maps

  Pick comes later that day with his mom.

  She wants to see the nursery.

  We spend the afternoon

  outside with a bucket of markers,

  pastels, and old paints,

  drawing maps for the game.

  Pick loves to draw maps,

  and Lisa draws in the borders.

  Sometime in the afternoon,

  we decide to make a map

  of the gallery so we can

  always remember.

  See You July Fourth

  That evening

  Pick goes

  home with his mom.

  He has to start some kind of camp

  in Sausalito for one week.

  I promise to work on the game.

  I’ll be back for the Fourth of July!

  he says. Try to think

  about the damage charts.

  I promise I will.

  I try, but I don’t think about them at all.

  Not once.

  The Walk

  Lisa carries a backpack

  that unfolds into a beach chair.

  The effortless straps

  curl around her shoulders,

  push her chest out.

  Her white shark-tooth necklace

  falls down the center.

  Her blond hair,

  in a wavy drop

  to the middle of her back,

  pushes around

  her blue bikini,

  rainbow sandals

  edging perfectly along

  the beach path.

  I am just behind her,

  too slow

  for her determined walk,

  her mirrored aviator sunglasses,

  her pursed lips,

  her focus.

  By the beach path,

  some older boys

  get between us,

  walk next to her.

  They talk to her,

  but she hides behind

  her mirrored glasses.

  It’s not just how slow I am.

  It’s that I’m afraid.

  I shrink back

  in these moments

  and realize how young I am.

  I mean, I sculpt trolls

  out of clay

  and design role-playing games

  with my best friend.

  I’m on a diet

  where I can’t even eat bread.

  These boys

  with football hands

  and chalky blond hair,

  strange smells

  and too many muscles.

  What can I do?

  Lisa stops in the sand

  and looks back at me.

  Her body turns sideways,

  and she holds out her hand

  for mine.

  Elysium at the Beach

  We find our spot

  almost all the way to the water.

  She spreads out her chair

  and breathes.

  Slowly she unpacks

  her things,

  water, lotion, books.

  She’s reading two now,

  A Wrinkle in Time

  and a romance novel.

  Lisa rubs sunscreen

  on her legs.

  I stare at the water

  as much as I can,

&
nbsp; until she asks,

  Get my back?

  My hands shake.

  I tell myself,

  like a brother,

  like a friend,

  just a friend,

  but it doesn’t matter.

  Her skin feels smooth

  in my hands.

  I let myself do it slowly,

  a little embarrassed.

  She trusts me to do this.

  She is aware of every moment.

  She’s not afraid of what I’m feeling.

  It doesn’t change how she treats me.

  Later, after we swim,

  we talk about characters

  from the stories we write.

  Elysium, she-warrior,

  driven out of her

  village as a young girl,

  captured, made a servant,

  learned to fight

  in the gladiator pits,

  until one day,

  with the help of Thall,

  she escaped.

  Jorge’s House

  Later that week

  Jorge invites us to dinner,

  even my mother.

  It’s just him and his mom,

  in a one-bedroom house

  near the Bolinas school,

  through redwood groves.

  His house is

  filled with cooking pots

  and yellow plates

  on the red walls.

  Over the fireplace,

  black-and-white photos

  of men on horseback,

  and a well-dressed couple

  from long ago.

  On a long wooden table,

  his mom

  is placing

  silver plates

  with different foods

  in circle patterns,

  yellow cheese,

  a pile of almonds,

  some cold fish like the herring

  my father eats,

  some meat on skewers.

  There are several plates

  of purple, black, and green olives.

  My mother walks

  right to her,

  places her hand on the fabric

  of her long blue skirt,

  and starts in

  on the beauty

  of the fabric,

  the smell of the food.

  Jorge tells us to have some

  sopes. Lisa does.

  I eye the bread and almonds,

  but I stay with ham and slabs of cheese.

  At dinner,

  Lisa pours some wine in her cup

  when no one is looking.

  Jorge helps to translate

  when his mother speaks too fast