A Farewell to Becky



a country girl reclines on her back porch

the twinkle of moonshine in her eye

born and raised in her small town

she sits on the precipice of change

one last party at her little house

a bittersweet haze in the air

old memories packed in boxes

familiar scents drifting away

the young girl tired of gossip

and the same old people she knows

she’s moving on to New York City

a big grey bird flies to her new home

there’s a job waiting on the 9th floor

and a new, faster way of life

trading barns, horses and wheat fields

for hope, glass, concrete and stone

she’ll find subways and taxis

instead of old pickups and dirt roads

from one world to a melting pot

only takes one dream to rule them all

maybe she’ll get lost in the shadows

or wind up on the cover of a magazine

she has only a few contacts

but she’ll make plenty more

one last look back over her shoulder

as she winds up for that giant leap

and opens a brand new door

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O’Hare, Gate C22

He was sobbing,

swarthy, unshaven,
and wore a fringed scarf loosely wrapped
around his neck.
Perhaps he was leaving home, a loved one,
traveling to a parent’s funeral.

Swarthy, unshaven, fringed scarf around his neck.

He paused opposite me, set down a duffle bag,
rummaged in it, removed an object
covered in brown paper. I immediately thought of a bomb.
Next he took out a prayer rug, unrolled it,
knelt down, touched his head to the rug and prayed.

A fringed scarf around his neck.

Was he asking Allah for courage? Was he
on my flight? Should I
alert security? I was not the only worrier: the woman
next to me had begun to fidget.

Swarthy, unshaven

Still crying audibly, he packed up the object and his rug
headed down the concourse, away from my gate.
No planes were blown up that day and none
were turned back because of a sobbing,
man who wore a scarf around his neck.

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HALF A DOZEN

There is something to be said about the signature of some mornings,
a scrawl of life returns through the blackened blinds
and the cold in the room breaks, heat
ebbing and flowing and thawing the splinters.

Soon I’m feeding the half a dozen
brown birds, bopping along the cement stones
and skidding through the legs of plastic chairs.
They are so much like the pigeons in the park,
picking up rocks and pretending they are crumbs.

I’m facing this tree that has a dozen tiny trunks,
bees are blinking on the cylinders of green.

There is something to be said about the signature of other mornings
when the wind breaks impatiently
against a thousand fortresses,
and mothers in robes thrash the windows closed.

We are drugged by the glacial dust,
our jaws are unhinged and open and sore, ingesting
the undying itch of losing too much.

But this is not one of those mornings
and the sky is best whittled one piece at a time,
the glass falls away and shatters, maiming the bathroom tiles.

I have already started
by squeezing your enormous shadow
red-faced through every window sill.

See more of Michaela’s work at miaamcgrath.tumblr.com.

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