Mary Louise Kiernan, the holder of dual Irish American citizenship, is twice published in The New York Times. The recipient of a 2015 poetry prize from Arizona State University, her poetry appears in numerous print and online journals. Kiernan was selected as a finalist for the 11th Ó Bhéal Five Words International Poetry Anthology Prize. Her work was recently included in Cork City‘s “Poetry in the Park” project. “The Gift of Glossophobia” [Kelsay Books] is the title of her full-length debut poetry collection. To read more, visit marylouisekiernan.com.

Waltz of the Flowers

Since autumn, the Saint Luke’s first-grade girls rehearsed
after being led in line, two by two, one finger on lips,
to the convent of the Dominican nuns who taught us.
We seven-year-olds clomped down the wooden stairs
where mysterious white linen shapes floated amidst
black fabric wings hung from laundry lines.

In the cold concrete cellar I struggled to master
the dance routine. Slack knee-high socks,
a thin navy-blue sweater over a short-sleeved blouse,
and my uniform jumper offered little protection
from the damp. “All together now…
Shuffle one, shuffle two. Point one, point two.”

That spring, taking my place on the church stage—
crowned with a wire headband of green leaves,
the itch of netting around my waist,
the pull of hairpins against my scalp,
the lipstick on my mouth—I missed the cue,
and lagged two steps behind until the song’s end.

Like a pointless prayer, I repeated, “Shuffle one, shuffle two.”
As the perfect row of dancing flowers swayed toward the field
of faces, I withered in the opposite direction—my back to pews,
where titters, chuckles, and guffaws escalated into shrieks of hilarity.
I would recall but a silence—as if repeatedly replaying
a grainy old movie with the mute button on.

Afterward my father arrived backstage, wiping away
his own tears of laughter. Did I cry? Did he comfort me?
My perpetual penance for stepping out of line
would be paralysis whenever all eyes turned on me.
Only once did my mother mention that day:
“You were the star of the show.”

No Act of Contrition

In stolen moments
I sit on my chair solely to stare into my past…

We were three Catholic camp counselors when I wished aloud
to rescue the chair abandoned below the dangling bulb
in an outbuilding campers used to change for swimming.

Paint-spattered, its leather seat tattered, surely I could redeem it
from its state of disgrace, and with my unwavering faith
I would strip it bare and provide perpetual care.

Driving along the camp’s edge, my pair of summer friends
shouted, “Stop!” Climbing over the fence, they broke
through a hedge, then reappeared, chair hoisted overhead.

It was the thrill of the take—a venial prank; yet
it was my chance to save a soul—a mortal concept
as if I could miraculously raise Lazarus from the dead.

Gathering sandpaper, varnish stripper, quadruple O steel wool,
lifting cowhide and horsehair away, I pondered,
Could this restoration be my eternal condemnation?

I envision the haloed trio I will ask for pardon—
a boy apprentice who treadled the lathe,
a woodworker who tooled the fleur-de-lis,
a genteel woman joyfully accepting delivery.

My golden oak chair with its carved back and turned legs
poses piously yet warily in the guest room
where even today it still remains coveted.

Aglow

Not
Jimi Hendrix
in white bells high on
stage at Randall’s Island,
Joe Cocker in his tight tee-shirt
at the New York State Pavilion, or
Cream in their curtained White Room
could hold a match to raven-haired Grace Slick
the night she rocked on the edge at Fillmore East—huge
with child & aglow in a pearl-white dress cut on a diagonal
with long silky-looking fringe pulsing to the surreal swirls of
Joshua’s psychedelic light show—moving even an innocent virginal
seventeen-year-old to lust for a body…some body…any body…to love.

Independence Day

I sit on my parents’ new balcony
overlooking the garage rooftops
slumped in a chair, one eye closed,
legs crossed at the ankles.

There is no sky—
a flat, heavy gray ceiling
rebounds all sound to the ground.

A bird calls to my left;
one on the right returns
the signal in stereo.

Fireworks.
Applause, cheers, then silence.
From the patio below:
laughter, then a lull until
a conversation of soft s’s rises.

More fireworks like radio static.
I twist the band on my ring finger
round and round as I descend
the circular stairway to
engage in pointless talk.

I escape to the balcony.
How old will I be
when I say what I mean?

Stick With the Feeling

What hindsight can be seen
in a tilted rearview mirror
choked by Mardi Gras beads
and blocked by red fuzzy dice?

Deep in slop, magnesium wheels
spin, spin, spin. The couple,
frantic for a Chilton manual,
take turns at the steering wheel
laced with imitation leather.

Climbing out the window
to hurl mud at his hot rod,
he curses its maker then kicks
dents into the sinking body.

No motorhead herself, she
knows this engine is blown.
Gagged by the smoke
of hot rubber and burnt oil,
she detaches as if watching
a B-rated drive-in movie.

Sideswiped by a wad of ooze
aimed at no one particular,
she maps out her escape route
as the radio speakers crackle
what once was their song.