Poetry by Madeline McConico

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                                                                                                            Our Lungs 


I remember when dad had his hands                                              I remember my dad held a gun before he
around my mother’s neck. Her back                                                ever held a woman. That he was trapped       
pressed into the kitchen sink. The sound                                      on the outside of the entire world.
of water running.                                                                                      Where the public pools were closed.

                                                                                                                          Where the fences weren’t white and the
Wishing more than anything that if I                                               lawns weren’t green. But the Police                                      
opened my mouth wide enough, and                                               always came. The sky could fall and                                                                                      
breathed deeply, that I might be able to                                         Hell could rise and no one would notice
pull air into both of our lungs—                                                           the sound of another Black boy
                                                                                                                          drowning. Seeing God’s face too soon.
That she might feel the rush of God
himself leaning down, touching her lips                                          And so I remember my mother's neck.
with his.                                                                                                         My dad’s tensed knuckles. The sound of
                                                                                                                          running water. And think about calling
Feel the cool rush of breathing,                                                          the police. And I think about this…
quintessentially— before the Fall. 
Where men did not press women into                                             If both your parents were drowning--
sinks.                                                                                                                struggling to breathe— and you could
                                                                                                                           only save one—
My eyes met hers and together we hoped
that if God truly sees all, that he
might see this too. 



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​​Madeline McConico (she/her) is a Chicago-based poet, editor, and artist. 

She holds a BA in English from Iowa State University and completed her MFA at Columbia College Chicago. Her work has appeared in Allium: A Journal of Prose & Poetry, Opal Literacy,  POTLUCK, and more. She currently works as a part-time adjunct, while serving as the Co-Founder, Editor, and Creative Director of the upcoming project and publication Unwoven Literary Magazine. Madeline is a Co-Curator for Off the Page: Poetry Reimagined.
 
In her free time, Madeline is an impassioned intermediate yogi and an avocado toast eater. She lives with her roommate Annalise, who she hopes to buy a clown fish with soon.