Diane McDonough
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Diane McDonough:
"I have always been a writer, but did not take my writing seriously until 10 years ago. I have had poetry published in The Aurorean, The Modern Journal of Writing, and The South Boston Literary Gazette.
I taught English for 15 years in area high schools, and at Bristol Community College, and am currently and happily a high school librarian, with no papers to grade. I am honored to be a member of the board of the Brockton Poetry Series.
I was born in Southie, grew up in Brockton, and now live in the woods in Raynham with my husband and our daughter, our golden retriever, and our cat."
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February Interlude
Lost in the moon-kissed Caribbean waltz
air heavy with torch songs
we wove our sun-browned pleasured fingers
in and out and
sashayed to the rhythm
of San Juan
entangled in enchantment like gossamer‹
silky
sensuous
(eligible)
breathless on separate flights home
to Boston and New York
we anticipated romance (promise?)
but miles of snowy interstate
turned fascination cold
in the last grey days of winter
when his bronze skin paled
and the fairy dust wore off.
(published in The Aurorean)
Itinerary
They told me there was a fire on Coram Street
Maggie's old house burned to the ground.
I used to pretend she was a relative
a Carey cousin
as petite as Ma and as steadfast
as the railroad tracks that lie
still, behind the ashes.
When we were girls, we played on her swings.
Twirling, untwirling, Maggie would dig
the toes of her sneakers
into the backyard dirt, patient
waiting for one of her brothers to push her.
I pumped my legs, pumped, pumped
not to outdo her, never to outdo her
but to rise on that swing
over the stockade fence
stretching, straining
to catch sight of the spotlight
the locomotive coming down the tracks
horn trumpeting mournful
I'm going going...
you coming coming?
bound for New York, D.C., Montreal
thundering into stations with marbled floors, flower stalls.
Ma cares for Katie, now
in the wheelchair.
My money built the ramp to the backyard.
Maggie declines invitations
keeps track of her husband, 6 kids.
My house-bound doppelgangers
in a parallel universe for saints.
High heels, my suitcase
click-click, click-click
across the marble floor of South Station.
My calf-muscles burn.
I'm coming coming.
