when your grandmother . . .

artwork: ralph murre

by Marty McConnell ~

when your grandmother mistakes your girlfriend for a man,

do not rise up over the dinner table
like a sequin tornado

or a burning flag. it is Christmas.
though the forks

curl their tines into tiny silver fists
and the frost-

rimmed windows blink in embarrassment,
focus on your lover

as she clears her throat, extra low, passes the salt
to your grandmother

who thanks the young man with the strange
haircut and delicate

hands. this is no time for declarations and no one’s
seemed to notice

though the milk’s gone solid in the pitcher
and your father

is suddenly fascinated by the unmoving air
in the other room.

your mouths do not move, except
to chew. this is family,

this is holiday, there are no affairs, no
addictions, your family

crest reads in elaborate embroidery
the less said,

the better. though your father did offer once
to pay for your therapy

back when no one you knew was in therapy
and there was no way

you were going to talk to a stranger about things
you’d never say

to your mother, even drunk, even on Easter. so
to say something now

about what might be a mistake, or just the easiest way
to explain a mohawk

would be bringing sand to the bank. unprofitable
and a little bit

insane. you study your lover’s chin. the tweezers wince
under the sink.

she could be a boy, you think. apocalyptic Christian
emails aside,

maybe your grandmother is progressive. astute
in her own

Southern, incidental way. your voice offering her
the butter is a punk band

playing an abortion clinic. all feedback
and nobody wants you.

she’s your grandmother. she’s nearly 100.
your uncle

took thirty years to get sober. your grandfather died
still owning the manual

to every piece of machinery he’d ever owned.
you still

don’t know how to make any kind of pie.
there are no

family recipes. in the far corner of your liver

your other grandmother

looks up from her patient sectioning

of a grapefruit,

offers you a chunk of your own atrophied

tongue, trembling

at the edge of her serrated spoon.

~ first published in the Beloit Poetry Journal

the word of the day is "myopia"

artwork: ralph murre

the word of the day is “myopia”

But now it’s time to call the children home.

     -- Kurt Brown

by Marty McConnell

With death at the edges of everything

the fruit flies seem unkillable, endless,

while Melissa’s back to chemo

a fourth time, another of Missy’s

students shot in Englewood, and now

the news, Kurt slipped off

in his sleep. The flies

rise up from the sink in a loose

fist, are everywhere, then settle

on the dishes from last night’s

impromptu holidayless costume

party. In San Francisco the lack

of clear seasons can make it easier

to forget about death. Brutal

as the Chicago winters are, the cold

reduces the murder toll which makes

the clear June sky a trouble sign. I wore

a red tutu, symbolizing nothing, Denise

a white hoop skirt covered with plastic

guns, Tatyana was a bee, which are

an endangered breed in our country

and all it meant was Sunday and potluck

and I didn’t know Kurt was dying, maybe he

didn’t know it either and I don’t know

Missy’s kid’s name but Dave was Madonna

and Jerre the leader of the band

and Sonya rocked an impossible

feathered headpiece and Stevie Nicks

sleeves. We’d spent the afternoon

talking about the role of art in saving

our own lives and then it was time for dinner

and ridiculousness, which is to say

living, noise from the neighbor’s balcony

almost as loud as ours, Sunday

and nobody dying as far as we can see.

~ first published in Tandem