The 1701 Q Street Conversion
Cornered in the Dupont Circle neighborhood that mutated from Hippie Haven to Gay Central, nestled among homes of once-illustrious families broken into pieces and sold separately, the building morphed from a Planned Parenthood clinic in the 80’s to real estate office today.
In those bygone days one monthly night they’d unlock for men––a handful of us that night (I left work on time for once) stirrups repurposed for heavier legs, a backdoor visit from the suburban doctor who snipped away through evening hours, disconnecting wish from bone, Russian from roulette, leaving us a little less but better. Three months after the last one came out kicking sense into my wavering head, I stepped up, lay back, inhaled the icy air of regret and relief…
all of which made for a strange exchange last week, with the fresh-faced lawyer passing papers for my wobbly signature, asking my commitment to a fixed amount for longer than it takes to raise a kid––longer than I’ll probably be around––too young to ’ve seen what the sea can do, to know what preceded the condos. I edited his untested worldview– Was in this same room 20 years ago, I said & waited for him to look up.
Ada Limon Perches on My Knee and Reads Her Poems
The PBS station on mute tonight, a ballet comes into focus, my smart phone in front of me, I scroll through the nonsense, land abruptly on a live link to her inaugural poetry reading in our nation’s library, I planned to go before this damn hurricane decided to stay.
I flip the rectangular phone on its side, a landscape view of dazzling blood-red dress and streaming cinnamon hair, prop her up, settle her on my knee. I press volume, lyrics ascend through the floorboards of the silent hall, of the hushed on-line audience, the marble-lined tunnels of Congress.
She moves fluidly through windy pages on the podium, the ballet twirls on my wall, forms a backdrop of whirling limbs leaping across my living room–– a larger-than-life dance backdropping a poet in my hand, her voice drops melting ice cubes in a lake, circles of fearlessness ripple from the center, her smiling delivery is everything I need tonight, shrinking me to human size in amazement of human agility, in awe.
I recall the day my breathing stopped: Can the words on this page be doing this? Dumbstruck & finally managing to raise my hand, asked if what I think I just saw was real, and the professor smiled and said, Yes, that’s art.
When You Really Wish You Were Still Stupid
After happy hour, feeling at a loss I stumble along the boardwalk into the racket here (it could deafen a thousand ears––and tonight it almost does) stand under a beach town tent, holidays in full tilt, by the kiddie rides: the carousel, then little fire trucks and finally a few feet from mini-boats afloat in inches of water, moving in circles, carrying toddler cowboys fire fighters and sailors, each looking around to see a thumbs-up from moms and dads–– you’re safe, have fun, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.
I try not to see that horse break a leg and fall, the fire engine careen over a cliff, little boats get sucked into a whirlpool, I try not to shout Watch Out over the din run over and pluck them from peril hold their hands, caress their silky heads carry them away, I can’t but that doesn’t mean I don’t need to.
They think they have it all the parents looking at me funny, one elbows her husband, nods my way and now I’m aware I’m a little too close to them, they sense danger but have no idea it’s not me, they don’t know what I know.
Hamartia
The four of us back in the car heading to a West Virginia weekend, they make me defend my actions––or inaction actually–– when the waitress back there got snippy with me, gave me some good-natured lip because I couldn’t decide on a condiment, I explain to my too-thoughtful fellows how the bop on the head she gave me hardly hurt was in good fun and she reminded me
of the salty gals back on Long Island, the ones I worked with in my teens, them serving and me clearing, where I got a different schooling, said I rather enjoyed her refreshing sharpness tired as I was of the mayonnaise life in D.C. but after a few minutes explaining I wonder if they have a point.
We cross the mountains & fall foliage meanders me back to the autumn day I took a black eye from the town bully, just stood there straddling the bike seat while his thighs held the front tire still, left me to explain the stain, to consider lessons I could’ve got that day, how life would come at me like a raised fist and how I should’ve learned to box.
Happy Endings
Today our neighbors removed a fence we thought we shared, we believed it right on the line, not theirs or ours, so tonight the dog got lost, the faithful scents gone, stars behind the clouds & moon covered over, making the search for her more dire, no border to orient our eyes. The hour was a week, it seemed, our girl so old the cold so resolute we were sure she couldn’t endure. We found her cowered in a corner waiting to fall asleep.
When my father had had enough–– the tumor lodged between his ribs, walking impossible even talking painful–– we carried him my brothers and I positioned him in a comfortable spot in the sun a warm place, familiar walls and pictures, to look past the open windows drink in the jasmine take the pills and wait.
Jack Mackey holds a master’s degree in English literature from the University of Maryland and was awarded a fellowship in poetry by the Delaware Divine of the Arts in 2021. Jack sits on the advisory board for Quartet Journal and his work has appeared in Mojave River Review, Third Wednesday, Rat’s Ass Review, Anti-Heroine Chic, Gargoyle, Bay to Ocean Anthology, and other publications.