Wound Care
It’s just a little scratch, but the blood fountain streams
Conquering the edges, bubbling redness gleams
Through the bandage seams,
The wound not cleaned,
It’s just a little dream.
I allowed the wooden sword to jab
The space between my arm and torso,
Empty air, newly stabbed, of course I was Mercutio.
Dad directed with zeal,
My 5 year old brother inscrutable,
The crucial lines, I spoke and died,
I love passion, the vitriol,
I hate the bedtime rituals.
We grew up not needing stitches,
Our gashes shared, bare to fresh air,
The flair, any flood of blood, unscared.
Sound the alarm, but not on the farm,
Invincibility was born here.
No laws, just blue gray old wooden barns,
Playing cards and tackling the Bard.
I truly never knew fear.
But I’m bleeding on the bar room floor,
I think I need a doctor, but I need a beer before.
Walgreens: the first aid aisle, you depleted it,
Treated the wound while I swore,
Seated awkwardly on the bathroom floor,
Tybalt’s sword, just the frame of a door,
But of course you came through when I needed it.
A scratch, a hot bed of germs and nerves,
Urgent care was there,
But I didn’t have the urge.
I don’t mind getting hurt,
Just sometimes lack the courage
To clean the wound
But I dreamed of you
And it came true,
‘Twill serve.
Low Clouds at the End of the World
The sky looks grumpy with the ground.
All in all I’m put off.
If I sleep and sleep
Until it clears up
Will you be here still?
What if the sun goes,
Like permanent,
Like plants and birds and sea creatures are out
In the blink of an eye,
If I disappear
And you disappear
Where does the love go?
I live for you!
Terrified.
My breath stuck, your face cupped in my hands,
Nothing is gradual,
Lines chase lines
And life’s getting fragile.
I live for you. What if you die?
A friend has a brain aneurysm,
Waiting to explode and disappear life.
Red and horribly larger,
Thin from puffing out pressure wrong,
Silent and raging
And racing towards nothing.
The sun is one and many
Depending on how far you look out.
All I want is what’s right in front of me.
I have never been so happy
Or helpless.
Jessie McLean, unpublished and entirely without accolades, loves poetry because no matter how lonely the writer gets, a few lines from someone else’s writing can make beauty out of a shared pain. McLean realizes that sometimes we can describe a thought or feeling in a way it’s never been said before. Then the unique and the universal settle together, calling for art, but also connection.
Sparks of Calliope 