A Brief History of Me and You
A harsh sun, bare sky, dust.
We began when you opened
your small blue eyes
and I was already there
several cities south of you
russet and fidgety, all
alone in my babylife.
You had moving to do
and tropical heat
sand and swimming pools
a small boat, the rough sea.
Reading was difficult
trouble came in with the tides.
My house was icy
cold watered, too full
of sick, surgical incisions
children trembling with rage
the sadness that stays
in downturned eyes.
When darkness fell
I read my way out.
We hid under our desks
during the Cold War,
failed spelling tests
when JFK was shot,
got fast food jobs while
men shot off to the moon.
We did weed with boys
sex with strangers
we weren’t supposed to
talk to. Trigger warnings
had not been invented.
Somehow we survived.
You snorted, tripped.
I drank, fell down.
You quit, I kept running
to cross the finish line
away from my past.
I thought I saw you
playing drums in Harvard Square.
You dreamed my long hair
in your mouth
and you kissed it.
We met, you left.
We met, you stayed.
You left and I followed
against all sage advice
to the tropics again
where we fought in the dank
wine and cheese nights.
The baby died, we separated
survived a hurricane
married in Key West
homebirthed a child.
We lived so close, never met.
You died alone
in the apartment your father left you.
I stayed in my father’s house
thinning victim
of the childhood
he denied me.
And the blood moon comes
three more times
before this too will end,
the days we have left
to start over again
eclipsed by this sad, sad earth.
Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes Florida noir with a dark humor. Novels include Project XX about a school shooting (Salt Publishing, UK, 2017) and What I Did for Love, a spoof of Lolita (Bloodhound Books, 2019). Kelsay Books recently published the poetry chapbook the disappearing self.
Bindweed Magazine 