clean.

Atari

Once, in New York,

after many nights

of working late,

my father came home with

an old Atari 2600

tucked under his arm

and a brown paper bag

full of Atari games

and dumped them on my bed.

He unplugged my Nintendo,

pushed aside my Xbox,

and we stayed up all night

playing Adventure and Breakout

way past my bedtime.

But sometimes I waited,

and he didn’t come home.

No Eyes on Me

I ride my bike to the bagel shop

my dad used to take me to.

When I get close,

I slow down,

look inside the window,

thinking he might be there

at the corner table

where we usually sit,

his coffee steaming

over his lox, eggs, and onions.

I ride my bike

across the city,

from the Marina,

over green Fort Mason,

down to the wharf.

I ride all the way

up Divisadero

to Haight Street

to the comic-book store.

I feel good.

The city is mine.

When I get home,

I pull a stack

of new comics

out of my backpack.

It’s quiet. I look around.

I can almost hear

my father’s voice

from the living room,

calling out, Ari, you home?

It’s strange how suddenly

my parents decided they

could leave me by myself.

But I think I might be getting

the hang of it. Freedom.

Taking care of myself.

Creating my own life.

I stretch out on my bed,

my body a little tighter now,

skin against my muscles,

stomach flatter,

slow breathing.

No voices,

no fire to burn

or hands to dream

of holding.

No trolls to carve

or stories to write

or gates to lock,

or trash to take out.

No giant terra-cotta

demon spirits, Melinda,

or angels or alien talismans,

no people up and down the streets

or beach sirens

or pounding waves.

No sleeping on a camping mat

beneath freshly painted murals.

Just moments

with no eyes on me.

Grandma’s Letter

At the mailbox,

I find a letter from my grandma.

A part of me imagines

that someday soon

I’ll be back on the subway to Brooklyn,

eating too many

lemon-flavored Italian ices

and winding up in her apartment,

the cleanest place in all of Brooklyn.

I open the letter and

pull out a folded

piece of stationery,

blue flowers in the center,

laced over a faded

Star of David.

Behind the ten-dollar bill

are the words,

Ari, we love you.

We hope you are happy.

We hope you are skinny.

Skinny.

I can hear her thick accent

and the kindness in her voice

that doesn’t mean to wound.

If I ever wrote a letter back, I might tell her

that I am, in fact, not skinny.

I am happy, and feeling more like myself.

I wonder how they remember me.

How even across a distance like this

she thinks of my size.

What If?

I want to talk to Lisa

about the letter.

I want to text her,