Colleen J. McElroy

Colleen J. McElroy (October 31, 1935 – December 12, 2023) was an American poet, short story writer, editor, memoirist. She graduated from Kansas State University, and from the University of Washington with a Ph.D. She was a Professor Emeritus at the University of Washington, where she was the first African-American woman to serve as a full-time faculty member. From 1995 to 2006, she edited The Seattle Review, first in the role of Poetry Editor, then as Editor-in-Chief.

 

LOHAR’S WIFE
Colleen J. McElroy

he’s only a smart-ass when he’s home
with Mandrake
he’s silent and obedient as a snail
his bald pate bowing into the cape’s
trail and dreaming
of tales he’ll bore me with
his one night home
 
once a month
that’s what I get like clockwork
and always on the full moon
half my allowance he reserves
for sheets, tearing them with his teeth
to vent the forced silence
of those other twenty-odd days
 
did I say odd
it’s that one day that’s odd
his coming home full of half-tricks
he’s picked up from the master
the hypnotic hunger
he so willingly tries on me
he claims he stole me, bought me
 
claims he’s Zulu, Bantu, Beja
depending on the hour, day, or year
says I was the black spot
in the white of his eye
the speck he turned into leopard
that unwittingly turned into woman
neither of us no longer knows what’s real
 
and my mother beats her fat tongue
against her gums
as each month I try to reveal the puzzle
stroking the lines from his hairless
obsidian crown
I hear her rumbling around in the next room
I soothe his sweet head and she moans
heaven protect us from all the things
to which we can become accustomed
 
======
 
OUT HERE EVEN CROWS COMMIT SUICIDE

Colleen J. McElroy

In a world where all the heroes
are pilots with voices like God
he brought her a strand of some woman’s

hair to wear on her wing.
She looked sideways at the ground
silent behind the cloudy film covering

her eyes knowing she would be his
forever. They cruised the city nights
each one spiraling away from the other

but always coming home to gather stories.
Dark streets bright tavern lights drunks
filled with beer in the gutters.

The flicker of stars shaped like a hunter’s
arrow bent stars that twinkled like babies’
eyes. No babies for them. She was an outcast.

He a loner. A perfect pair.
Winters had made him wise
and he avoided the single nests of summer.

He told her about things she could see.
How the dismal cover of clouds roils and explodes
and the ground aches like an old woman’s knee.

How wood rots against the tide
good for hunting grub.
How to fade and fall back into the wind.

He translated her pulse
into near-language. Their poetry so personal
even Peterson’s Field Guide could not tap it.

Only a stray hunter saw it.
Shook his head once thinking it a trick
of wind and wing then turned his eyes north

to search for the simple flight
of Brant or Canadian. Those patterns
he could easily understand.

That last night they drank from the river.
Sucked its delicate cusps of mold
sang anti social songs as if they were humans.

When he flicked his handsome head
to catch the drift of wind
she even managed a single tear.

She waited through days and nights
of grief. Circled the city less
then settled on the wires.

The metallic conductor captured her eyes.
She remembered how he proudly sang her name
as he pranced from pole-top to KV line.

One last fluff of feathers. One sigh
for all the unnested summers.
One single scratch

one electrical surge of power of love.
Then she fell smiling.
A trick he had taught her.

=======

SIDEWALK GAMES
Colleen J. McElroy

                                   I
 
The sidewalks were long where I grew up.
They were as veined as the backs
Of my Grandma’s hands.
We knew every inch of pavement;
We jumped the cracks
Chanting rhymes that broke evil spirits,
Played tag at sunset
Among the fireflies and sweet maple trees
Or sang wishful sonnets about boyfriends
To the tune of whipping jump ropes.
The sidewalks wrapped around corners
Like dirty ribbons lacing the old houses
Together in tight knots;
Maple trees bordered
The all-white cemetery.
Sometimes we’d watch Priscilla’s uncle
Sway down the dirt alley towards home.
We called her Pussy, called him
Crazy Max.
He was feebleminded and took to fits,
Barely making it from alley to pavement,
Loping down the street like a drunk.
We paced his jagged walk
Against tumbling tunes,
Taunting each pigeon-toed footstep
With rhyme.
The boys      bolder, louder
The girls       tagging along
Braids flopping like twisted hemp,
Ending in brightly colored ribbons.
We turned our black faces into silence
When he finally made it home;
Watched him grope up the broken concrete stairs,
Clutch the wooden railing,
Lunge for the broken screen door
And his medicine.
His tongue flopped wildly,
Parrot noises drowning his sister’s cries
As she rushed from the black pit
Of their house.
 
One day, he leaned away from the safe umbrella
Of his sister’s voice;
Leaned into the sky,
Hanging on the porch rail like a rag doll,
Then fell into the cracks of the sidewalk.
We rarely chanted after that,
Always passed Pussy’s house in silence.
Sometimes I’d sit in the sweet stillness
Of Grandma’s moldy basement
And draw his outline on the wet fuzzy walls.
The grey concrete backdropped my stick figure
As it fell into nothingness.
 
                                   II
 
Bumpsy played the Dirty Dozens
As we jackknifed the length of the block,
Forcing grown-ups off the street.
We linked arms like soldiers,
Our black legs scissoring in precision.
    One’s a company, two’s a crowd
    Three on the sidewalk is not allowed—
    Last night, the night before
    Twenty-four robbers at my door—
    Po-lice, po-lice, do your duty
    Make this boy stop feeling my booty—
    Mary, Mary, tell me true
    Who is the one you love?
Tin soldiers, wooden guns, and sharp tongues.
We got comic books for the price of one
In blitz attacks at Old Man Farrow’s dirty store.
Garages were secret places for dirty jokes,
Our folks couldn’t afford cars.
When we got older, we played house for real
Until we found Terry’s baby sister’s body
Behind a stack of tires;
The melodies we’d sung still seemed to bounce
Off the dirty walls and stacks of comic books.
 
                                  III
 
Our houses ended at the sidewalk,
Whitewashed steps gleaming like teeth
Against the blocks of grey pavement.
We walked three blocks just to find
A vacant lot to feed Mildred’s thirst
For green grass.
Fat Vaughn could eat a whole sheet
Of newspaper in less than three minutes.
Once, I licked the damp cellar wall,
But the taste didn’t match the sweet smell.
Ten years later, I searched through Grandma’s
Things before they were sold for auction.
I found her picture, three comics and the wind-up
Victrola we had used to put on our version
Of Cotton Club musicals.
We traded days so we could all be stars;
The rest sang chorus until the Victrola
Ran out of steam, the record moaning
Like a sick calf.
I found the stack of old pillows
We collapsed on, giggling and tumbling
Against each other like puppies,
While the needle stuck in one groove
Cutting circles in the records.
 
=====
 
WEBS AND WEEDS

Colleen J. McElroy

Sidewalks of webs and weeds
Run parallel to empty lots where foul deeds
By handkerchief heads and winos were played,
To that old house where we stayed.
Irma Jean, Cora Jean and I, three debs,
Against the cracks of weeds and webs.

Sitting through matinees, dodging chores,
Chewing gum; claiming boys were bores.
But secretly grooming hair and breasts;

Jennie’s brood, a female nest.
Irma, long-legged, delicious full lips,
Taught Cora and me to wiggle our hips.
George Darlington Love, a beau, my first;
They yelled his name like a tribal curse

As his virginal fingers pressed our bell.
Against that background of sights and smells,
We ignored switchblades, zip guns, and knees
Shattered by cops in that place without trees.
Now memories of dances are sprinkled like seeds
Among cousins and sidewalks of webs and weeds.