Kathleen McGookey
What a Difference a Day Makes
One day three skeletons appear in the yard by the Wenger’s white
farmhouse. One tries to mow down another, who braces its feet against the
machine and screams. The third stands nearby, spotlit, narrating or singing,
I can’t tell which. The Wengers are nice people, but I have to look away.
They’re just skeletons, I tell myself, they can’t hurt each other. The next
day, only the singing skeleton’s head peeks out from a trash can lid, propped
up by one bony arm. The next day, many more skeletons emerge, pushing
themselves up and out of the ground. The next day, two armies face off:
one side holds pumpkins, the other, bones. One skeleton poised between
them wears a black and white shirt, whistle in hand. The lawnmower
languishes in the shadow of the barn. The next day, one skeleton in a white
coat flourishes a syringe; the rest line up for vaccines. The next day, a rusty
model A truck crashes into a tree. More skeletons tend the newly dead
thrown onto the lawn. I look away again. The next day, under a sunrise
that streaks the clouds pink and gold, the army returns; each skeleton holds
a shovel, ready to dig their own graves.
~
Let the Record Show
In the corrected version of your decline, you never fall, never spend two
days crawling from room to room, searching for a phone. The ambulance
idles in the hospital bay; your housekeeper mops the kitchen, like always.
Your hallucinations vanish: canned goods gather themselves back into
cupboards, the doors click shut. Your hearing aids nestle in a velvet box
that once held an engagement ring, and you appreciate every word we say.
Let this corrected version show that you never yell, never strike a deal with
a swindler who promises a mirage: going home. Itemized bills slip from
your hands and drift to the floor. Clean again, your skin glows like a
newborn’s; your head is a friendly bald egg. You accept the little room with
one window, the path from bed to chair and back again. Snow and rain or
clouds and fog visit occasionally, peeking in like a couple old friends you
manage to keep.
Kathleen McGookey's most recent books of prose poems are Paper Sky (Press 53) and Cloud Reports (Celery City Chapbooks). Her work has appeared in many literary magazines including Copper Nickel, Epoch, Field, Glassworks, Los Angeles Review, North American Review, Prairie Schooner, The Southern Review, Waxwing, and Willow Springs.
