Poetry By Ramona McNish

       R. Miller CC




Quarterback Boyfriend
​
Breaker of horses and other boys spirits and leftist nihilism,
with the field lights all hitting his helmet like a dying star,
he takes his grace and gets it dirty,
he takes his might and makes it hurt.
Fit like pre teen daydream,
sexless in his sweat licked state,
flicks his hair back, doggish as he turns his face to the light,
his pupils all indigo polaroid flash,
looks up at me like I’m a scoreboard miracle.
I cheer for him like I don’t know the concussion statistics or that he still texts his ex.
He does it for his dad, and he does it for the girls, and he does it for the glory, and he does it for
the fun,
because it’s fun, losing like a bitch, and winning like a bitch, and saying things like that with a
straight tooth smile.
And I do it for that smile, and I do it for the status, and I do it for the sex, and, okay, I do it for
the fun,
screaming on the bleachers, and standing for the anthem, just for Friday nights.
And when it’s over he’s choking down onion rings like the deep fry is anointment,
thanking God when he’s asked, like it was God’s fault, this body, this red hot american heart, this
late September air filling his lungs till they sting.
On the car ride home he says things like chip shot and hand off, and hail mary pass, and, “You
looked really pretty tonight.”
My untragic hero fells me like he fells this small town with no other Friday night plans,
earnest, strong, and gleaming,
with many false starts, breathing hard, his face out of view the entire time.​





​Hatchback Babies

They are careening towards sleep
what little flesh they have, all speckled red,
The neverending twisting knots of hair, their crowning glory.
These girl-boys,
rest their bird bone ankles on the radiator,
though the summer’s run a fever like someone
stuck a swiss army knife in its engine.
These boy-girls,
play sick and play dead,
play Ophelia and Hamlet,
forget their lines by act five,
play that sad song cassette again.
When scars are traded like baseball cards on a frosty schoolyard,
they are reliable.
This one on her inner thigh from scaling the fence to the public pool at one in the morning.
This one on his lip from when the fist caught his cheek and the tooth peeked through.
Maybe it’s gone to California,
this doctrine of teenage tumble.
The fog might do them good.
They bite like wild animals, you know,
gnawing on each other's skinny limbs,
undoing so much damage with their spit.




Ramona McNish is an emerging poet in the Bay Area, attending Bishop O'Dowd High School. She is a junior staff editor for Polyphony Lit, and in her free time enjoys reading, listening to music, and staring at her bedroom ceiling. 
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