Me and Mary in Formaldehyde— Ted Mico
The end of boyhood comes with panic
and no back-up parts, Mary and I discovering
why we’ve got tongues, how they belong curled.
We carve classroom desks with switchblades
– We were here – then cut our thighs
where no one could see. Mary drops her pen
in Sister May’s history test, so I can copy
her work – important dates, like 1066
or the day we began fucking and unfucking
the world behind the gym.
When we shake, September-red leaves lose
their grip. When we speak, balloons squeak loud
above our heads. At lunch, we lay
under the shade of a claw-hammer until caught,
underwear wet with circumstance
around our ankles. Me and Mary on punishment
chairs in Sister Gertrude’s assembly. Two
filaments lit by revolt. We deck the halls first with
with truancy, then biology in Sister Judy’s.
We are still covered in detention.
The room smells of loose ends. Mary
stares through her defiant bangs
at the badger fetus floating unfinished
inside a specimen jar. This smallest thing
too much for us, this eye to eyeless contact.
Preserved, the word Mary hangs
on a brass coat-hook I made for her
in metal shop – the gift of each other
holding up the day before she suddenly left
with rumors that filled our class like fists.
Ted began his writing career in London as an editor at the seminal weekly music paper Melody Maker. His poetry has featured in Cordite Review, Slipstream, Sein Und Werden, Lumina, Arboreal, Pure Slush, Okay Donkey, Cesura and others. He’s edited three books of non-fiction and is a regular attendee at the legendary Beyond Baroque poetry workshop in Venice, California
In the Beginning— Lorraine Jeffery
Childhood was tall trees
and grassy fields. At five,
I was the oldest, my brother,
still a baby.
And then there was my foster
brother, Mark;
four years older,
who crowded my top position—
just a bit.
***
Mama’s “dejunking.” Holds up a
battered rubber drink and wet
doll—one arm missing.
Do you want this? she asks me.
I shake my head and return
to colouring.
I do, Mark says suddenly. I want
the rubber tube that’s inside, I’m
going to make something.
And the snake rears his ugly head.
I changed my mind,
I cut in, I want it.
Mama looks at me and must see
the flick of the forked tongue.
Mark asked for it first,
she says, handing it to him,
and evil is born.
I know why I want it—
because he does.
Lorraine Jeffery has won numerous prizes and published over 150 poems in journals including
Westward Quarterly, Ibbetson St., Clockhouse, Orchard Press, Naugatuck River Review,
Halcyone and Tahoma. Her first book, When the Universe Brings Us Back was published in 2022.Her chapbook, Tethers, was published by Kelsay Books in 2023 and they will also publish Saltwater Soul in 2024.
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