Mickey J. Corrigan
Three Poems
Cleanup Crew
On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart’s desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.
—H.L. Mencken
The doctor is here
on your screen, in your hand
the fed team tele-tells you
Lysol spray and UV rays
a fat lemon to suckle
with your malaria pills.
Suicide seems less risky
a mass poison prescription
when the briefings end
after violent hours, dumb
and dumber licking metal
hoar-frosted with lies.
How do they sleep
you ask at two, four
in the morning, ammonia
smelling salts, bleach inhaler
and what’s another number
atop a stack of creative data
you hear them recount, rephrase
in voices that rise and fall
like curves on a graph
in someone else’s nightmare.
Wastelandia
April was the cruelest month
and homebound with his hands
around her neck, another face
blued from coughing
loss of access
to the safety rope
on the far side of the pool.
March was the coolest month
house parties on speed
nude sunbathing boats bow
to bow to stern
warnings ignored, more Corona
beers, fresh slices of lime.
February was the blindest month
let the Others figure it out
they always do, business
as usual with the hustlers
hustled past, drop a dollar
not worrying about germs or such
on the way to something
so very important so very
forgotten now.
May is open-sesame month
like October masked up
bank robbers on parade
smiling through the night sweats
shaking hands held out
for government handouts
forced to trust
that which has proven
deadly, so very cruel.
Liminal Spaces
It is a simple story
it is not a simple story
The hero trapped
inside the bat cave
silenced by the spread
of joker commentary.
No laughing matter
warnings come
the virus is not the disease
the disease is the host
us
infected, responding
in the societies
we are isolated
in our own liminal spaces.
The virus varies little
the disease varies a lot
No game changers, no
dictatorships of methodologists
but plenty of illusions
all that confidence
where none has been
earned
in the slow, erratic
stumble
toward less
uncertainty.
It’s all our fault
it’s nobody’s fault
it’s the fault line
in our democracy.
—Submitted on 04/29/2020
Mickey J. Corrigan is the author the disappearing self (Kelsay Books, 2020), What I Did for Love (Bloodhound Books, 2019), and Project XX (Salt Publishing, 2017), among other collections of poetry and fiction. Her poems have appeared in r.kv.r.y., The Voices Project, The Rye Whiskey Review, Mobius, Fourth & Sycamore, and other journals. She lives in South Florida.
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