FIVE-YEAR DIARY
Found my diary yesterday
wrinkled in a damp basement,
a gift from who knows at nine.
I dreamed of being Millie Perkins
playing Anne, hiding from the Nazis
in the attic with Peter, Margot and Shelly Winters.
Broken lock and lost key —
brother Joe threatened to invade
and share during a sleep-over.
Today I will wear my velvet pants and fake ponytail.
Today I washed Freckles paws because they were dirty.
Today I went to school, then I played Barbies.
Joe broke a vase. Last night I stayed at Grandma’s.
Gary S. gave me candy for my birthday.
We went to the library. I got Bernadette and the Lady.
Broke up with Gary now I like Sean.
Went to Pattie’s party and Sean wasn’t there.
Went to Alateen and I was chairman. Vicky spoke for me.
Mom said I showed off.
LOOKING FOR ANNA
It was coming down hard
that March afternoon when I stopped
by Mom’s mother’s house on my way
home from class. I knocked on the locked
storm door– only my anxiety answered.
I shifted my’72 Gremlin
into first and searched
sidewalk cracks and sewer grates.
I found her three blocks away
parked on a stool looking out the plate
glass in White Castle. I lectured
You shouldn’t be walking alone
in this neighborhood.
She shrugged I walk fast so they won’t
know I’m old.
DECISION
I called him
My Million Dollar
Baby for all
the trips
to emergency,
daily shots,
special diet.
Friends agreed–
what a charmer.
He saw goodness
in everyone,
and no lap
was a bad lap.
Dr. Myers
vowed to write
about how
he beat the odds.
After dinner
at Vinny’s,
you found him
barely breathing,
twitching on
the basement
floor. I checked
for puke and piss
on the new
throw-rug
from Target.
You ran for
my phone.
What’s the number?
My chianti buzz
kicked in.
It’s on the fridge.
Bloody drool
dripped from
his hanging tongue.
Are you sure
he’s still breathing?
I took my time,
hoping he’d just
stop– the cheapest
way to go.
You leaned down,
Let’s just get in
the car and go.
When you left
the room for
a towel and his soft
bed, I searched
for a heavy thing
to smash his skull.
I imagined the sound
it would make.
You drove. I held
the bed in my lap
and stroked.
We sobbed.
I asked at the desk
about cremation
costs. Three hundred
and forty-five dollars
includes a special
memorial kit. His sugar
level and vitals
were nil. I said
do nothing.
I drove home,
snot dripping.
You carried his
empty hair-stuck
bed to the trash,
said nothing.
I decided to keep you.
Molly McCormack is a teacher, poet and folk musician from Louisville, Kentucky. She enjoys exploring her creative side- painting,
–Art by Diana Cretu
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