2020: 4 poems by mary mcginnis.

 

Stick Of Lightning


Sleep, like a stick of lightning

pierces and then lets go-

 

the touch of sleep last night

I noticed brought sweating rather than burning. So, it

 

couldn't have been a stick of lightning that

kicked me into memory.

 

Stick of lightning would be a good way for me to exit

without a fuss, like a star burning up in a hurry.

 

Slightly over a year ago, you took your own life-

the star of your own show.

 

You had been planning it for a long time,

deliberately choreographing.

 

I was angry then, but now I get it.

You had the unbearable need for perfection to be restored.

 

For us on the outside, your life looked good:

Buddhism, recognition, menudo with Bob,

 

two bedroom assisted living apartment

with wood and tile floors,

 

dining room across the street where we wrote once.

It's a cliché, what did we know?

 

You left like a stick of lightning with concentrated power,

first no food, then no water. Friends around and by phone.

 

Is that what comes of never complaining

and always laughing?

 

The last time I saw you, you were stung by a bee.

We packed up our picnic and one of us took you to the e. r.

 

Bob, Barbara, and I took a sad little walk.

I lived through this but not that.

 

 *

 

Looser


Let go of the jailhouse of

ordinary time. Because of this virus,

on our honor, we wash our hands,

sanitize our apples,

excite the old-fashioned woman in us who suddenly

remembers she has an oven and might

like to cook.

If you're a man who never has, get

over it!

Sing at the sink while you wash the inevitable

evening dishes.

Remember, time is a slow thread now.

 

Lie in bed a little longer, and enjoy an

old habit long overdue.

Outside at least one window,

some birds keep their song,

even the

ravens hover and watch safely.

 

 
*

 

Part of My Shadow


You're part of my shadow, though gone;

you were the one who picked up little pieces of paper when they fell.

You were the one who made art where dust was.

You were the one who watched birds on afternoons at home and everywhere.

 

I was the one who always talked,

and after you listened, I talked less.

And you did things I didn't want you to do like

gambling in a harmless way and not taking down phone messages.

 

Neither of us care about that now.

You are an anchor in my shadow,

the friend I can still speak to,

the part in me that breathes a little deeper,

the part that holds stones until they are warm.

 

*

 

Death, Don't Break Me Open

Death, don't break me open-

Not yet.

It can't hurt to ask for a big brawny techy

man or woman to show me if my turntable still works.

 

It can't hurt to go to Big Lots again

for the purchase of some weird, in between

food or drink such as Diet Partner Tea.

 

I want a reservation on a not-cruise

so I start to remember my dreams again.

 

Death, don't break me open;

come in fragile politeness as if in a dream.

Bring me a banana dress - I've never had one.

 

Death, you look a little scary,

like white margarine.

Let's see if we can make a deal.
 

 

 

Mary McGinnis, blind since birth, has been writing and living in New Mexico since 1972 where she has connected with emptiness, desert, and mountains. Published in over 80 magazines and anthologies, she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has three full length collections: Listening for Cactus (1996), October Again (2008), See with Your Whole Body (2016), and a chapbook, Breath of Willow, published by Lummox for winning the poetry contest in 2017. Mary frequently offers poetry readings and writing workshops in Santa Fe and Albuquerque, New Mexico.