Poetry by Joshua Mcgarry

Waiting on Explosions

The mortar shell crash-
landed on the couch
nestled in the moldy green
velvet, between your sprawled
legs. Did not explode.
We stared the way we stared
at the television, the room was
quiet, the room will continue
to be quiet even as a light
drizzle comes through the hole
taps its way into our rotten foundation.
I will pour us  more margaritas,

Salt or sugar?

Salt, always salt as you
collect small things, a soft
blanket, your smallest shirt,
a wig off a costume. assemble
these things and the bomb
into a thing you can cradle in this room
where Wheel of Fortune’s always
on, and I pour us martinis. Maybe
You hope it will begin to cry. We will
stay quiet, as you paint eyes, as I pour
More neat shots, make it triple
as you draw a small face

In lipstick, a crack in the steel makes
a mouth you spoon full of tender
mashed fruit, you will look up, I will pour more
drinks , we will stay quiet, we will stare
at each other, we are waiting for someone
to blink, maybe the bomb, we are waiting
as we light Tarrytans, we are waiting,
waiting as we watch the lighter
Strike sparks.





Night in the Slaughterhouse District Tenement Apartment Complex: 3am

    In a top floor studio the painter licks the blood off his knuckles, the painting of a
non-reflective mirror is wrong again, there is another fresh hole in the wall another fist shaped
hole of frustration and the canvas is black. Brush scratchings catch the dim bulb. His boyfriend
sleeps on the futon, the painter too wants to sleep, knows he can’t as he wraps his hand in a layer
of gauze. Then he stretches a fresh canvas, and gathers himself for another leap. A drop of blood
rolls across the palette. The vibrations of a passing train form ripples in the paint
                                                                                                   *
    The roof is full of dance steps and spilled beer. The lovers fuck. They tangle their bodies
into unfamiliar shapes, trying to make this pretend real then unwind into the lighting of
cigarettes, smolder springing from one to the other in an ashmouthed kiss. Quietly, smoke and
sightlines drift over the edge. On its side one can reads Nonalcoholic. Duke Ellington jazz strolls
out of an open window two floors down.
                                                                                                   *
    The needle catches in the pitted slab, the only light is the moon reflected off of the wax,
but the piano keeps casting its shadow over the young woman her body pressed tight against the
plaster, shrinking. A frozen steak over an eye hides everything the music doesn’t. There’s an
airless moment between tracks, then the tender brass announces Star Crossed Lovers.
                                                                                                     *
     Through the glass thin walls someone stirs to the fanfare, but stays asleep. In his dream
he makes a phone call and gets an answer Yes, Yes I’m here and it’s okay. I’m long gone. He
hangs up and lingers for a moment, the honeyed memory of dark skin hangs in the air, before the
scene snuffs out.
                                                                                                     *
    like the Rosemary candle that lights a letter one floor up. Dear…. I should say father, I
can’t say father, I don’t think I ever will. I need help, What is the price of help? A small doodle of
Sputnik orbits the words, caught in the gravity of broken connections
                                                                                                      *
    Preparing to leave before light, someone slaps eggs and toast into a pan. The fire off the
range illuminates wrinkles that she swears weren’t there yesterday, but she whistles anyway,
carrying on the night’s score where Duke left off. On her plate the yolks run like slow dawn.



​

Deterrence Theory

She stands there, naked
in the open window, in the after-

math. back to me as I
fill two glasses, cold

like the wind in the bare
branches outside, the wind

on her bare nipples. In a minute
she will turn, behind her eyes

there are silos, screens showing
not  love movies

but launch codes.
she knows what lies

behind my gaze. In a minute
the light will flare

plutonium oranges
growing in the branches

their peels blooming
into mushroom clouds, and against

the white world we will
clink our glasses

as our Geiger counters
gargle, click

chirp, like crickets
worshiping the blast.





A Lebkuchen*

Split in half
smells of ginger
and cloves, of holidays
fills the small living
room like the delicate light
from the open winter
windows. I do not know
that is this the first sweet
bite my grandfather has touched
in four months, have not yet heard
of the cancer and chemotherapy
the stories, that don’t drip through
The receiver, him on morphine
bedbound, writhing with hallucinations.
Hair is only now returning
moth thin to his head.
Right now this does not matter
as we share the,
warmth and ginger that
fill the soft brown corners of the room.


*A type of German cookie eaten around Christmas time.

​
​
Bio: Joshua Mcgarry is a poet working on his MFA at Old Dominion University. Originally from Wetzlar, Germany, he now lives in Norfolk where he writes, reads, and collects too many records. He has been published both online and in print with: Ekphrastic Review, DoveTales, and Boston Accent Lit.