The skin on the surface of that ridge

must aggravate the nerve endings,

because it can feel the metal

part of the school chair.

In class, I take my pencil,

lay it between the edge of the desk

and my stomach and measure

in a T-shape

the distance in between,

how many pencils of space

between my stomach and the desk.

For Mark, two at least,

For Diana, at least two and a half.

For me, less than one,

even when I suck it in,

even when I push my jacket into my body,

less than one pencil space.

Carlos, no pencil space at all,

gets stuck when he tries to stand up too fast.

Other kids say he’s been like that since first grade.

They leave him alone now,

like they don’t even see him anymore,

like he doesn’t exist,

but that seems worse.

In the mornings,

kids sit sideways in their desks.

Pick is talking to Abra,

and Noah is laughing at something

that Grace just told him,

moving his body freely up and down,

his legs crossed, comfortable;

I see the angles of his body

with space all around.

When Skye talks to me,

I wish so badly I could

sit sideways in my chair.

I want to turn around

and see her eyes.

She always smells like candy.

I turn as much as I can,

my stomach pressed against

the wood lip of the desk,

my neck aching.

I want this one simple thing

to open up more space

between my desk and my body,

to stop seeing

life in pencil lengths.

Shadow Father

By the end of seventh grade,

my father becomes a shadow,

tired, distant,

weighted down,

the business swollen,

sculptures,

paintings,

and prints,

and hand-painted dresses,

my mom’s designs

arcing across

silk and cotton,

a life fleeced

with fabric,

the world puffed up

in San Francisco showrooms

and design expos,

important meetings

way past my bedtime.

One weekend day before summer,

I go with my mom to the giant warehouse

where they make everything.

I have something to tell everyone,

she says, and I want you with me, Ari.

I love the warehouse,

acrylic paints and oil slicks,

messy palettes, blue jeans,

bundled fabric, stacked canvases

like bright packages

waiting to be ripped open,

and jars of brushes

in water pots planted on

gesso-stained coffee tables

and wooden supermarket crates.

The sinks in the back,

swirled into muddy rainbows.

She floats inside

like she has wings for real.

Her paintbrush poised as always

for correction and for instruction,

forever the mentor

where artists work

to repeat her designs now on shower curtains,

pillowcases, sweatshirts, and blankets,

each one original, each one

poured out from the well

of a single imagination.

I run ahead of her

into my father’s office,

a goliath door

in the center of the work space,

I unhitch the latch, push.

This is the first time I see her,

his assistant, on the leather couch,