by Michael McGill
1.
Harder that morning, the sun
pressed down, and everyone
on the street lay brain-dead,
sunbathing like cold corpses.
Under fluorescent tubes, I waited
for the glow boys, those weird
ones who shimmer and glide
in minor chords through dark
interiors, or who loiter for hours
in communal showers. I waited
for the jangling of the gaoler’s
keys, or for some other
jailbirds to flock. I waited.
And never have I needed
the glow boys like
I did that morning.
2.
Iris, it was your mother
who taught me that all angels
are men. She taught me
this one Sunday afternoon
in the Gardens. We danced
the Gay Gordons and wore
youth on our lapels
like poppies.
“All of my angels
are men,” your mother said.
And every afternoon then
was a simple song.
3.
But who were the glow boys really?
Scenesters; mere scoundrels,
mere scamps who all took
more than they gave.
And what did the glow boys
ever bring but airports?
Arrivals and departures, vapour
and jet-lag. What did the glow
boys bring but that broken-down
carousel at Newark? Yes, the one
that carried others’ baggage
and others’ desires.
4.
Later, on Staten Island,
some strange ghost whispered
in my ear, “Welcome
to the United States.”
Her words ring oddly
now: ‘United’… ’Welcome’…
I stood on that ferry
and cried but then cold
waves cheated my tears,
cold waves brought mercy,
reprieve, made me appear
windswept rather than weeping.
Iris, I was crying
for my friend, and I was
crying for those evenings
when his face, the skyline,
when the skyline,
his face, they remained
unharmed, they remained
untouched.
Editor’s Note: This poem originally appeared in printed form in Eye Flash Poetry.
Michael McGill is a UK-based writer from Edinburgh, Scotland who has recently had work published in Funhouse Magazine, Far Off Places, New Walk and The Haiku Quarterly. Follow him on Twitter @MMcGill09 or Instagram handle at michael7209. He has also recently had a short piece included in the Lies, Dreaming podcast.
(And don’t miss his superb Occupational Poetry. – Elephants Never)