Hi there. This one is not for the kiddos. Strong language and theme. It's a tough piece, a prose poem, but it's also raw, real, and close to the heart. It shows there is still childlike yearning even in the thick of hardship. All of my poetry is fictional, and in a first person piece such as this, the "I" is never me directly, although some mistake it for that in both my poetry and my fiction.
Then again, the best writing comes from writing about scenes and stories that we know. Love to you. C.A.
Under the Covers
Near Short Vine, me and Susan chill and smoke up
at the toothless cat’s McMillan dive.
Wimpy, cool kids beg below the window.
I see them through the zoo bars.
You know, faces all cut up.
We know no heat or Dr. Seuss is coming.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
Me, loaded, Susan, on snow, we shiver together,
no more than shaky, sick,
whatever twigs. We share a White
Castle. On the wet futon, we wrap up
in Street Barbie’s leftover, wet, thin, gray blankets,
keeping watch on the scratched, black floor.
Everywhere, burns. Everywhere, pick-up-sticks
and GI Joe’s Hep C. The room moves with roaches.
Susan is seeing Care Bears. To stay warm,
I eat her pussy. Cheeks sink in -- our sleepy hollow.
When I give up, she throws up.
We hurt, hugging lightly, and love isn't working,
but it’s still on the brain.
Better, I half-sleep. You know, Platoon.
Susan stands tall, writing on the wall
with fluorescent paints, yelling at the ceiling,
calling it, Mother.
Eyes like cartoon girls, she raises her right arm,
holding up the neon yellow pen. Connect-the-dots
is tough -- her sores are moving again. Shrugging,
Susan smiles and says, If you leave, I just might
kill myself. She draws me that freaky Rainbow Brite girl.
I tell her to tone it the fuck down.
Susan wants to go to prom.
I’m in.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
C.A. MacConnell
Then again, the best writing comes from writing about scenes and stories that we know. Love to you. C.A.
Under the Covers
Near Short Vine, me and Susan chill and smoke up
at the toothless cat’s McMillan dive.
Wimpy, cool kids beg below the window.
I see them through the zoo bars.
You know, faces all cut up.
We know no heat or Dr. Seuss is coming.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
Me, loaded, Susan, on snow, we shiver together,
no more than shaky, sick,
whatever twigs. We share a White
Castle. On the wet futon, we wrap up
in Street Barbie’s leftover, wet, thin, gray blankets,
keeping watch on the scratched, black floor.
Everywhere, burns. Everywhere, pick-up-sticks
and GI Joe’s Hep C. The room moves with roaches.
Susan is seeing Care Bears. To stay warm,
I eat her pussy. Cheeks sink in -- our sleepy hollow.
When I give up, she throws up.
We hurt, hugging lightly, and love isn't working,
but it’s still on the brain.
Better, I half-sleep. You know, Platoon.
Susan stands tall, writing on the wall
with fluorescent paints, yelling at the ceiling,
calling it, Mother.
Eyes like cartoon girls, she raises her right arm,
holding up the neon yellow pen. Connect-the-dots
is tough -- her sores are moving again. Shrugging,
Susan smiles and says, If you leave, I just might
kill myself. She draws me that freaky Rainbow Brite girl.
I tell her to tone it the fuck down.
Susan wants to go to prom.
I’m in.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
C.A. MacConnell
