Poetry by Christine Higgins

              ​emilykneeter CC




Beloved Son

She heard about some young guys
sleeping under the JFX. 
She asked me to drive her there 
to see if we could find her son. 
We went at midnight, and found him
asleep, wrapped in a dirty blue tarp.
We brought him home.  
His arms were scarred with needle marks.
His eyes were bloodshot.
He had scabs on his face.

My friend made him take a shower, 
and gave him a banana and yogurt to eat.
She begged him to get help, and he
promised he would after a good night’s sleep.

In the morning he was gone.

A whole day went by with no word. 
She decided to check the breakfront 
where she kept the family silver—  
two silver candlesticks 
were missing as well.

Next time, we went before dawn, 
and her son was there 
under the same tarp as last time.
Someone had left a half-pack 
of cigarettes under his chin.  
We drove him to rehab.  
He sat numb in the back seat
with only his cigarettes for comfort.  

My friend’s family said to her:
don’t coddle him, don’t let him 
worry you to death, age you, 
take from you, 
but she ignored them.

The long days of recovery worked.
Recovery steadied by helpful medicine.  

I keep the empty cigarette pack 
in the back seat of my car--
a talisman of sorts, a reminder:  
we may find ourselves here again.

​




A Cautionary Tale

When my daughter 
heard about her high school classmate’s death
she called me from Mexico.  
A little brown boy named Paulo
was sitting in her lap.  She read to him 
practicing her new Spanish skills. 
She called to tell me how sad she was.  

Her friend had been shot in the shoulder
here in Baltimore. The story she told me
was that Marco was sitting on his friend’s couch, 
hanging out.   The rumor was the shot 
wasn’t life-threatening,
but his friends were scared to call the cops,
and he bled to death.  

I rejoiced when she said she 
planned to go on the mission trip
with the good kids from church.  
I wanted her to start her life with
giving back and travel adventures. 
I wanted her to be safe.  

I knew she was buying pot,
smoking to help with anxiety. 
Here’s my chance I thought to give her
the lecture: don’t take risks with your one life. 
Oh my cautionary tale, when
what she wanted, what she needed
was for me to grieve with her.   

She died a few years later
in a car accident.  She took my car,
my keys to go rescue a friend.
Words can bounce off the walls at that age--
while we wait for their delicate brains to develop.

​



Daughter 

You wrote a poem called
Cigarettes in the Shower, 
even though we agreed you 
would only smoke on the porch.  
There were some many things
we handled like this, bargaining
with your mental health, really.

I knew you loved your cigarettes.
I knew you felt you needed them to be okay.
I knew which store sold them to you 
even though you were underage.

I began to refuse you money.
So, you washed all the windows
with crumpled newspaper
to earn enough to buy a pack
and brought them home anyway. 

I know they soothed you-- 
your racing brain that would not 
let you slow down and rest.  
You must have been calmed by the nicotine,
that deep rush when you inhale
and for a moment you tell yourself:
everything’s going to be okay.  

In a box of mementos, 
I’ve saved your eyelash curler, love notes,
a half-empty pack of Newport’s.  

I imagine the burn of tobacco
as it chased down your throat
and into your waiting lungs.
                                
You pulling it in, holding fast--
like the last line of your poem--
Inhale, exhale--
thinking it would keep you alive.




​
Christine Higgins is the author of the full-length collection, Hallow (Cherry Grove, 2020).  Her latest chapbook, Hello Darling, was the second-place winner in the 2019 Poetry Box competition. Her work has appeared in Pequod, America, Windhover, Nagautuck River Review, and PMS (poemmemoirstory) She is the recipient of two Maryland State Arts Council Awards for both poetry and non-fiction. Higgins is a McDowell Colony Fellow and a graduate ofThe Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. You can visit her website at: www.christinehigginswriter.com.