LIT 150

Lit150

Margaret Monaghan

Hand: conduit

What is understood is how a change in light is affected through the earth’s turning, and the hardware store is the longest-surviving point of commerce. The tire station used to be a good place for soda. They sold cigarettes via machine, in an enclosed foyer.

A sandbox is a device for exchanging children. The monkey bars are famous. Stairs are song-ish. When you find a tissue, you turn it over.

Between any two points there is a story. A definition is only a part. As we gather speed, we approach the ending faster. We have questions, though, about the past.

View: bedridden

Things go together. A vocabulary teaches us this. For example, parking a bag against a plain pole. In your hands, the earth loses its rotundity. We get rounder. Why don’t you carry a guide around? With every step, the battler gets intenser. Gets growlier. Looks one way for a pamperer, the other for one still holds a grudge for there being a pamperer.

All battlers were once pampered by their mothers.

At the end we still have our backs, but pointier. That whole row has diagonal backs. In the country, the pictures are black and white and discolored.

Czeslaw Milosz’s progeny he called us

I don’t think a lot of people get my work. It’s out there though.

Do you think you have a kind of thirsty slash egocentric view?

I have thirst. More than ego. There’s a difference, more than just semantic between ambition and egocentrism.

You’re suddenly sniffling. Can I get you a tissue.

No.

Yes, I think you’re right about that. [Takes heavy breath]. I’m trying to figure out the words. I do have questions for you.

I don’t doubt it. [Standing up from low chair.]


Contributors

Margaret Monaghan's writing has previously been published in The
Iowa Review. She lives in New York City.

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