The Buzz

The will to kill sleeps lightly.

Mine startled from the deep

by a fat little fly.

Not by the bug itself, 

not by its hive of eyes

or six furry legs that double

as a tongue and taste my arm 

when they land on it.

But by the whirr of its wings 

Flapping

Hundreds of times each second --

I can’t think!

Oh that horrific hum

Seems trillions of times bigger 

than the black speck itself!

That is what carves away 

my patience, my humanity

for the chase from wall to lamp 

to door to wall and back to chair

Without a care for this bug’s role 

in the stream of life.

I'll wait, sure as a spider 

sulking on her silky thread. 

This buzzing beast will die tonight.

Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

Swarm

It unnerves me really.

This glance in my rearview mirror.

This long line crawling behind me

Splashing up rain with wipers like sensors,

Long and twitching against glass, 

Mine groaning loudly.

It unnerves me really.

A swarm 

of chemically driven beings,  

Rolling behind me

And me 

Rolling behind them

Their luminous eyes

Unblinking, reflected as fangs 

Dragging in the stream
Automatically, in a trance, 

A long line of lone

Segmented creatures 

Swept along as one

But with separate purpose and

Self propelled but synchronized

As one compound living thing.

As one breathing, slow-moving being.

Not joined or even touching

Unless viewed from the Moon

or my rearview mirror

When it's clear we are one driven being. 

Only one. 
Bending in the gale.

Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

Roger Dies in Shasta City

We sit together at the big picture window, gazing.

So many evergreens, he sighs.

This is mushroom country too, he says.

The Hearst family has a spread up here.

A large fringe element, too, he adds.

Godless people, Roger’s nurse mumbles.

Roger squirms in the wheel chair. He has to pee. 

Dammit! There’s not enough fat on my ass 

to sit on a toilet! 

The nurse helps him into bed, onto a pan. 

Let’s watch a movie, he says. 

How about The Big Lebowski?

That’s good for a laugh. 

Ok, I say.

All I remember of that night is Roger,

Laughing, wincing, laughing. 

We watch the movie twice.

I turn to smile at him when Walter says 

His buddies died face down in the muck

so people could enjoy a nice family restaurant.

I thought he’d be smiling too but Roger was gone.

Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

I Stopped By Their Headstones Again

Today I stopped by their headstones again,

Down a ways from where new mourners kneel

Beside baskets of lilies, roses, creeping thyme

And, of course, the dark hole, always a shock,
Wide against the mound of fresh dirt and mulch.
The small places that will take us all back.

What lies beneath this wormy grass is not them,

Not the buffed beings with clear coated nails
we still know well from the pictures: 
The handsome sun lovers in uniform, the newly
Baptized and Confirmed, women in see-through gowns,
Holding babies or kittens, waving from new cars,
All these life-loving toiling hearts, unprepared.

All that’s left of them now lays here underfoot--

Rows of ripened bodies, rubble, skulls, trinkets, 
Dried flesh, tangled hair, hooked nails, wax--before

They were caught in one of their usual hangouts

At their designated hour, to be hollowed out one day

Like so many small Pompeii’s or even scooped up
By incandescent beings into an uncommon world.

Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

I Was Weary, You Understand

I know you must be crumbling 

like a day-old pan dulce.

After all, this is your mother you’re looking at

Painted and powdered like an old diva 

In a jeweled music box.

You must be shocked looking down on

My hands, laced with black beads

Which you know I recited over and over

All through my last days.

Afraid, yes, I was, but you know, son,
There wasn't much else I could do.

I could not care for my orchids

Nor even my own hair. 

It’s impossible to look your best

When you can’t stand up

By yourself.

And honestly it shocked me

To see your hair so white. 

And you know I complained

The room always seemed too bright.

I was so weary, you understand.

Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

On the Way to the Game

Dominic and his friend sit side by side
in the back of my van.

In a surge of elation he shrieks,
leans over the seat and 
nibbles on his friend's ear

as he's done often
since they were 3.

Now they're 11.  

Now his friend jerks free.
Yuuuuuuuuuuuck! 

Why do you do that?

My son's smile does a flip.

Because I love you, ya big idiot!

They turn to their windows, one left, the other right.
Only I see their smiles in the glass.

The boys too busy reliving what they just nearly lost:

A little more time on this well-marked road to the game.  

How to become the person you want to be

Dominic

When he was 12 and changed

schools, my son decided 

to change his image, too,

from class clown to

something more strapping.

Surprized he knew how

at such a tender age,

to make such a bold transition

I asked for his formula.

Here's what he said:

Mom, it's easy.

First decide who you want to be.

Then start acting like that person.

People will treat you like that person.

Then you will be that person.


Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.