How Strange, How Sweet

By JOSHUA MEHIGAN 

This was a butcher. This, a Chinese laundry.

This was a Schrafft’s with 10-cent custard ice creams.

Off toward the park, that was the new St. Saviour.

Then, for five blocks, not much but chain-link fences.

These foolish things, here today, gone today,

yesterday, forty years ago, tomorrow.

Deloreses and Normas not quite gone,

with slippers on, and heads like white carnations,

little, and brittle, and mum, why did the fine

September weather call you out today?

To dangerously bend and touch a cat.

To lean beside your final door and smile.

To go a block and get a thing you need.

What are you hiding, ladies? What do you know?

 

Micks were from here to there. Down there, the Mob.

And, way down there, the mob the bill let in.

Far west were Puerto Ricans. Farther west,

in Newark, Maplewood, or Pennsylvania,

one canceled choice away, why, there’s nostalgia,

lipstick, and curls, and gum, and pearls on Sunday.

So here’s a platinum arc from someone’s neck chain,

bass through a tinted window, loudest laughter,

the colored fellow with the amber eyes

who doesn’t need to stand just where he is.

Here sits the son of 1941,

a pendulous pink arm across a chair back;

his sister, she of 1943,

her hair the shade of an orangutan.

Food stamps and welfare, Medicaid and Medicare.

Kilroy was here. Here was where to get out of.

Last come the new inevitable whites.

See how the gracious evening sunshine lights

their balconied high-rise’s apricot

contemporary stucco-style finish.

Smell the pink-orange powder as some punk

sandblasts Uneeda Biscuit off the wall.

Flinch at the miter saw and nail gun,

at three-inch nails that yelp as men dismantle

a rooftop pigeon loft. Those special birds

will not fly home to the implicit neighbor,

or fall like tiny Esther Williamses

in glad succession from a wire, to climb

and circle in the white December sky.

Far up, from blocks away, the pale birds seemed,

when they all turned at once, to disappear.

Across the street, the normal pigeons eat.

 

Joshua Mehigan, whose poems “How Strange, How Sweet” and “Believe It” appear in Issue 06 of The Common, was born and raised in upstate New York. His poems have been published in a variety of journals and magazines, including Poetry Magazine, Ploughshares, The New Republic, Parnassu: Poetry in Review, and The New York Times. His most recent book, The Optimist, was published in 2004 by the Ohio University Press and was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.

 

Listen to Joshua Mehigan and Paula Bohince discuss “How Strange, How Sweet” on our podcast, Contributors in Conversation.

 

 

Julia PikeHow Strange, How Sweet

Related Posts

Image of trees and buildings

The Amherst Bulletin (excerpts)

SOFIA BELIMOVA
After the rain, we get slices / of the grey and yellow world / which slip through the earnest bunches of acorns / in sheets of diffuse, papery light. / To the west of campus simple houses / propagate drifts of dust and applewood in the dusk. / Creaking floorboards in an upstairs room

poetry feature image

July 2019 Poetry Feature: J.J. Starr

J.J. STARR
I am, he said, and the multitudes fell back/Shapely spirit makes a sport of modifying bodies/As for our home, dog shit covered the carpets/She was my object, I could have held her like a stone/Kicked out or fled, who knows, she left for California/Made prodigal, her returning two months

image of field with poppies

Essential Summer Reads 2019

With July well underway, we've put together a list of transportive pieces that encapsulate the spirit of summer—the dust above the country roads, the coolness of the waterfronts, the anticipation of autumn, and of course, the sticky, melting sweetness of ice cream. Take a trip through space and time with these summery selections.