A Selection of Poems
Heading Out
I have returned
to the Atlantic at Wellfleet
and a burial in June
three years ago.
I'm riding the same boat out.
The sea flat gray then
now is splintered
with light.
I remember my father's ashes
on the seat
in a brown paper bag
my mother's old hands
the veins distended
her shaking fingers
opening the bag
spilling the ashes over the side
some sticking to her
scrubbing him off
to be rid of him
at the last.
Now, heading out
for mud flats offshore
clamming at low tide
the sea is stuck with sun.
Straight in from the Atlantic
outside the embrace of the land
the waves rise coldly.
The boat slaps down hard.
The water stings
my face and hands.
​
© 2019 by Molly McKaughan
Undressing
If loosening
(I think of a nineteenth-century girdle)
were only so simple—
to dream and it would be true.
I have shed garment
after garment
and am still clothed.
When I am alone in the mirror
my nipples shine.
Nude before you
my heart is wound in string.
There seem to be cords
on my wrists and ankles
pulling them together.
Your hands must break
and smooth me down.
Please, oh please, peel me.
Take the petticoats I've kept
in my closet since dancing school
take the Girl Scout uniform
with merit badges for flowers and fires
take the boned bra and the see-through panties
take the bottle of gin on the window sill
take the front seat of a '62 Ford
take the pride and the bedlam
take my two front teeth.
I don't want a dollar.
I don't want anything.
Just undo me.
Use your teeth if necessary.
Every snap must go.
Fine buttons nestled in lace
intricate hooks and eyes.
I want you to see
my nipples shine.
​
© 2019 by Molly McKaughan
The Essential Condition
​
Loneliness camps out in my heart
and waits for that hue of light
at the dying of the day
where she can change whatever joy I’ve gathered
to dust in a twinkling.
Her twin sister, Longing, is a trunk packed with pain
I’ve lugged along everywhere.
Her magic mirrors show me
only what’s missing.
Before I knew a single word
I knew them both.
They were with me in my crib when I was hungry
they nestled me when no one came.
For a long time, I could send them packing
with a few glasses of wine
but they always returned
until a river of wine ran through my life.
Today is different:
I feel the sun warm on my skin
marvel at the rainbows in the drops of dew
captured by cobwebs.
I smile at my dog’s wet nose on my knee
And delight at scuffing through fall’s bounty of leaves.
Yes, the sisters still come for an occasional visit
but I recognize them for what they are:
the essential condition
called being human.
​
© 2019 by Molly McKaughan
The Day She First Didn’t Know Me
​
The rouge puddles on mother’s cheeks
and the wrinkles
carry it every which way.
She can't see so well
but keeps on applying
face paint and blouses with bows
decorated with food.
On the way to the dining room
she's led by the hand
a child once more
to the trough of pills
the nurse commands.
I follow muted in their footsteps
my daughter's hand in mine
between here and there
isn't far at all.
And suddenly
I want her back to the way she was
when I railed against her and hated her
every suggestion for my betterment.
I want her back to tell her
—my whole powerful mother—
how I love her.
I kiss the spot of rouge and hug
her bones barely covered now with skin
—muscles shed like winter clothes—
and do it a second time
because it's all I can do
on the day she first didn't know me.
​
© 2019 by Molly McKaughan
The Box
It is March 2001
I sit with the box in my hands.
It is maybe a foot square
brown paper wrapping
a simple label.
I sit on a wooden chair in a row of chairs.
I am alone in the row
in the room
except for the box in my hands.
Heavy, so heavy
I press it to me
curl my body around it.
Tears roll down the dry wash of my skin
I am swollen with tears.
I want to go back 22 years
I want the contents of the box inside of me
curled, kicking, almost ready.
When I find the strength to put on my coat
to stand with the box clutched to my breast
when I can shuffle past the empty rows
and walk down the stairs and out the door
when I can thumb the button to open my car
and sit behind the steering wheel
when I can place the box
on the passenger seat
I put the seat belt around
the remains of my son
and drive us home.
​
© 2019 by Molly McKaughan
Scarlet Hope
On the landing, now home to Nick’s ashes
and ashes of dogs
and photos of the lost and we who loved them
is one in particular—
published in a calendar for 2002
a photo of my son and a long quote
from his writing:
the tree of knowledge in your soul will grow
and the helping friendly book
will plant the seed.
But I warn you that all knowledge
seeming innocent and pure
becomes a deadly weapon
on the hands of avarice and greed… ohhhhh.
And running sideways it says
In Loving Memory
N I C H O L A S
Freemont Plummer
And today I burst into tears
at my loving memory
missing him through to my toes
gasping air as I head downstairs
and pour my morning coffee
trying to right my fragile life once more.
And as I turn, cup in hand
there on the railing of the deck
is a bright male cardinal
head cocked at me.
We look at each other through the glass
and I want to believe
it’s Nick’s spirit
telling me he’s ok
and I should be too.
​
© 2019 by Molly McKaughan