2 minute read

Megan Mealor, “Slipshod

Next Article
Birth

Birth

Slipshod

Megan Mealor

I can only think back to the crash pad off Justina, breakneck roaches shimmying from sideboards, spasmodic blinds sallying with intoxicated illumination. I recall the smutty runners in odious hues of shamrock and umber, carpet withering like wormwood beneath our rakish ashes. Voluptuary sketches lined the livid walls. The Odd Bods died in pugnacious pairs, overfed and overnight, tankmates unfit to fraction recessed ruins of resin temples. It was a hard-fisted hovel with not enough windows and far too many doors, facing the backwater bikini bar flashing a mutinous marquee of lost sheep while wolves in threadbare coats prowled the turnpikes. And there was a feverish sign, just beyond the parking lot jagged with patchwork cars, that leered and loitered, an idle voyeur publicizing skipjack churches which were never seen again.

Psyche

Ingrid Casey

I’m speaking fluently and climbing steep streets like water. It’s your son’s celebration, your mother Ryanaired her way here, delicate white sky trails, of course I went to her pumpkin and tomato town, smoked meat you are, not telling me things. In the waking time, ironing, an uncle circles around steam, no particular connection; he’s had a small motor accident, you are told the next day. Keen is your soul to grow, unseen is real now.

Photo by Sue Ball

Maleficent

Ingrid Casey

What do you dream about? Standing on piles of books the height of skyscrapers, near Broadway and a breakfast place called Daniella’s, jumping through windows for interviews. Bowie... the day after his death whispering “goblin” in your ear, showing eagles spanning wings on precipices, saying “Fly!” Epic horizons on West African beaches, and making friends with panthers, protectors. These are my horns, made from scratch the day after we were liberated. Three days it feels like, down to the dead and now, we circumnavigate, swim and fly.

Atheism is Tinder

Ingrid Casey

How big is your gratitude? As big as the mountains. Where is your faith? Stolen. Where’s your rage? In the lava. Do you come? Like the sea. Like rivers. Who loves you? Nobody, nobody, nobody. What’s the refrain? A resounding are you fucking kidding me are you fucking kidding me

This article is from: