(click image to enlarge)by Shawn Eggleston
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Under the Dunwoody Bridge by Essie McKiernan
Two years, Maria and Richard
have lived here two years, and all the small
domesticities are present: pile of books
beside their mattresses, damp pages
furling in the breeze; red suitcase on wheels;
sea of plastic bottles (water, soda, vodka);
a tin dumpster-cubby lined now
with snacks; four pillows, seven blankets,
one monster quilt; someone’s frayed stuffed animal;
two green lawn-chairs with torn webbing;
a notebook, three pens, tampons.
Little Tommy Tucker sings for his supper,
What shall we give him? Brown bread and butter.
and life beneath the bridge is so far below
the radar of believability
that my body sways a bit, trying to take it in.
20,000 wheels a day steer their way downtown;
in the camps below, the days continue
much like yesterday, invisible, unseen.
(an excerpt from Under the Dunwoody Bridge)
by Essie McKiernan
Cigarette Break by Essie McKiernan
I could smoke all night with them,
Manuel of the clean pressed pants
who thinks I’m from the INS, Manuel
of the earned paranoia; and Billy,
who tells me of the house he owned
two mortgages ago, the repossessed truck
he believes a bankruptcy lawyer
could help him get back. I hand Mike one,
then Lamont, and they’re amazed I smoke
at all, much less two brands. I tell them
my story about hedging bets with death,
how when I turned 30 I bought Camel Lights
and tried to alternate with Marlboros,
how I really didn’t use the word death
to myself but mortality instead
because it felt a little vaguer. I light one
more because we all have time on our hands,
because my ten year-old is at his dad’s
tonight where he is building a house
under the blanket for his cat, tucking her in
snug; where he will fall asleep holding
what he loves, knowing, even deep in childhood,
there is no greater shelter.
by Essie McKiernan
Manuel of the clean pressed pants
who thinks I’m from the INS, Manuel
of the earned paranoia; and Billy,
who tells me of the house he owned
two mortgages ago, the repossessed truck
he believes a bankruptcy lawyer
could help him get back. I hand Mike one,
then Lamont, and they’re amazed I smoke
at all, much less two brands. I tell them
my story about hedging bets with death,
how when I turned 30 I bought Camel Lights
and tried to alternate with Marlboros,
how I really didn’t use the word death
to myself but mortality instead
because it felt a little vaguer. I light one
more because we all have time on our hands,
because my ten year-old is at his dad’s
tonight where he is building a house
under the blanket for his cat, tucking her in
snug; where he will fall asleep holding
what he loves, knowing, even deep in childhood,
there is no greater shelter.
by Essie McKiernan