to get my mind off things.

I take out graph paper

from our game-creation supplies.

I squint my eyes

at the paper,

tiny boxes edged together,

turn them invisible,

sketch robots

to scale.

First I draw a car:

four boxes long,

two boxes high.

A truck:

six boxes long

three boxes high.

And then the guardian robot,

five boxes,

its muscular metal leg

the fortified steel frame,

the housing for the pilot,

the cockpit in the helmet,

all rise twenty boxes high.

One metallic arm

reaches out

nine boxes toward the square sun (four boxes).

In the distance,

the guardian robots

watch over the bridge,

steel plates

against their

nuclear hearts.

cO-lec-tOrs

The next day, back at the beach,

the water is perfect,

and we don’t see those boys again.

Sun-beaten and saltwater-bleached,

we return to the nursery before the sun sets.

A man in a silver shirt

shines near a woman in light blue.

They wear sunglasses inside,

lean on the counter,

turning pages

of print portfolios,

talking low.

Lisa turns to me. Who are they?

I nod and whisper,

with a long o sound,

cO-lec-tOrs.

Lisa nods, smiles a little.

Well, she says, pursing her lips.

I seeee.

My mother

glides in

holding a pink bottle,

champagne and glasses.

She talks as she pours.

The foam bubbles up and over,

and she wipes the counter

in one stylish movement.

She believes that champagne

is the drink of a queen,

sophisticated, transformative.

We sit in the courtyard near Melinda,

watch the feral beach cats walk

the top of the fence.

The collectors ask questions.

The Artist answers,

disjointed and familiar phrases,

names of sculptures:

The Ice Priest is a reincarnation of the Mother Spirit.

The Lotus Keeper is the guardian of the sacred flower.

There is an opening in the head of the creature

for the life force to come and go as it pleases.

More champagne.

She clears her throat, signals us

to get salami and crackers.

In the back, we pull Ritz from boxes

and arrange them in a semicircle

on a floral platter.

We build a cheese tower,

place salami in a red sea around it.

I fold cheese squares and salami into my mouth

with my left hand. With my right,

I hold a cracker to my nose.

I can feel the golden flakiness and crunch

on my tongue.

The woman smiles.

We are interested in the entire collection.

My mother shakes her head in disbelief.

This is what she’s been waiting for.

They talk for a long time.

Later,

the Artist walks them to the gate.

She smiles, closes it behind them.

The sun is down now.

Did they buy it? I ask.

No, Ari, they did not. She sighs.

But they might? She puts her

hands on my head.

I’m taller than her now,

but I still fit in her hands.

It’s not that simple, Ari.

She breathes in and exhales words with no air.