In this sobering poem from Laura McCullough, we get a glimpse at wounded pride and its relationship to misogyny.
Late Spring, Dignity
Frankie on the boardwalk, skinny
jeans his head mean stalks the girl
from his old high school who once
called him a fool. Here he is again,
he wants to say, a kind of play that
is no fun, he knows it; if he surprises
her from behind, tatted arm from around,
his hand in her face, would she scream?
Could she ever scream his name? Mercy passes
Tino, drumming in his spot—always
Thursday, all day late night across from
The Pony—and she stops, her friends sloppy
next to her. All their hair swaying, wood
heels clacking impatience. Her scrunched
hand from her hip pocket. Dropped coins.
Frankie feels them in his loins. Seagull pecks
his toe, then backs away, wings held high.
***
Editor’s Note: Laura McCullough has published with us before. Read her poem about fatherhood, “Trance.”
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