September 11, 2017 | Occasus | Issue 7 | Poetry
2 Poems by Erica McKeen
The Midwife
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She is old and says her niece is speaking to her from her sister’s stomach. She rambles on in dialogues such as this:
“Babies in the prickly wombs behind clouds don’t listen to stories, they tell them “to their mother’s toes and cry when the ending’s aren’t right. I mean when the beginnings don’t fit, like their feet in the placenta oil under little nails. “Cry, they won’t hear. They press their ears but the belly’s a brick you’ve locked yourself behind. “Your growth is obscene, unimaginable, like dreams come to life too many monsters and flying children hearing stories instead of telling them. “Don’t worry,” she mumbles to her sister’s ear, “It will be still.” Her sister shivers and pushes away. The midwife is old and dies inexplicably the next day. |
The Attic Has No To-Do List
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1.
I have things and things to remember
dishes to wash toilets to clean bookshelves to dust and organize, alphabetical I have dinners and lunches and breakfasts to make monsters to chase? beans will do for today the bus is always late ketchup for taste my bike is broken the back tire wobbles and won’t inflate I’m forgetting (that email, locked, caught in cyberspace) Mother gives rhubarb for dessert no ice cream and the books, disorganized and the bathrooms aren’t clean I haven’t touched the shower, stretching weeks. 2.
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In the attic
plain rice sits like maggots on my tongue In the attic stained ferrets crouch in corners, watching In the attic the meds are working but mix memories with my dreams In the attic doctors are people and they cough and snore and puke In the attic I find money and eat it, it’s good on toast In the attic I cut my arm and the blood is sour In the attic a frog lies inside-out on the windowsill In the attic my face screams out of a computer screen In the attic there’s no ice cream, I’ll starve 3.
I’ll starve for words
Give me ketchup for taste I’ll starve for words I’ll starve I’ll cut for words Where’s my ice cream, Mamma, I want dessert
Cut for words
I’ll starve Pull out my eyelashes Forget what sleep means |
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Mamma, where’s my
I’ll forget for words
Lose my mind for words Lose my mind Lose my Forget That I’ve forgotten |
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Mamma, I’ve forgotten something
I’m hungry, where’s my —First do the dishes Yes, Mamma dear
—And straighten your hair
Mmhmm
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—And come over here
But Mamma
—Sit down now
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—We have things to take care of
Mamma, I’ve forgotten
—Shut up.
Baby I mean Hush baby don’t say a word. Shut up now, you’ll get your dessert. |
ERICA MCKEEN is a writer of poetry and fiction, with a particular focus on the weird and twisted. Her work has appeared in the 2014, 2015, and 2016 issues of Occasus, multiple issues of The Quilliad, Minola Review, Shirley Magazine, and other publications. Her short story, 'Our Eyes, Our Tongue,' won the 2016 Lillian Kroll prize in creative writing. She has worked with the Toronto-based poet Catriona Wright in the event, 'Couplets,' a collaborative poetry reading series, in June 2017.
