Courtney's Collection for 4/20/11 Workshop

“No Chicken Tonight”

by Courtney O’Donnell

O, bag of old chicken,

slumped on a shelf in the fridge,

we’ve made your tomb in my kitchen

like some loathsome committer of sacrilege.

Your life could have been wrought with succulence:

casserole, cacciatore, or curry.

But instead, I have robbed you of your adolescence,

and you are wasted, foul, and furry.

Now I'm filled with dread
thinkin' you were once alive and kickin'.
We looked forward to putting you on bread
but probably shouldn't since your mold-stricken.

So into the garbage you go,

a shriveled reminder of what you could have been.

Your life was so short. And lo,

I’m reminded, food wasted is a sin.

"Your Boyfriend is a Norah Roberts Alien"

by Courtney O’Donnell

You are in the most perfect relationship anyone has ever been in—ever. This relationship is the most romantic, most engaging, most endearing experience of your life. The whole situation is really way too Prince-Charming-Cinderella-Ryan-Gosling for you, but your head is too full of fluffy pink goo to sound the cheese alarm. You sit and think about this on the tope fabric couch with the weird white stain that looks like angry Donald Duck in the living room of your apartment—your significant other’s apartment. You contemplate how and why any of this has even happened to you, and you stare absently at the paint-chipped wall with a shit-eating grin on your face. Your life has become a flurry of curly blonde over blue, marathon sex, and country music’s greatest hits. It’s cozy, and warm, and safe, and it is the biggest source of stress in your life at the present moment. Why?

You have never had a fight. No passive aggressive glances, no hostile lectures about responsibility, no canned goods aimed at your temple. Nothing. Only sunshine and good feelings. This shit only happens in Norah Roberts novels, and its overly-idealistic pap. And if you hate one thing, its idealism. How much can you know about people if you have never seen how they react to stress, or betrayal, or frustration? So you have to ask yourself, where will this thing go wrong? Differing opinions on evolution? Or will you find your significant other wrestling the wallaby with your best friend in your bed? No. That would never happen and you know it. But at least there would be some kind of certainty if it could. So you soldier on, spending time watching zombie movies, baking quiche, and drunkenly slow dancing in dark corners, all the while suspicious that he may be the perfect boyfriend alien from outer space who will undoubtedly suck out your brains through your ear with a straw.

What makes this even more incredible is that you have more bad days than good, and when you have the opportunity to be an asshole—you take it. So, there you are, sitting in Creative Writing class thinking to yourself, “I bet that jagoff didn’t even wash the—“

INCOMING TEXT MESSAGE: Note to self: do not EVER touch penis after working with fiberglass.

And just like that, you’re no longer annoyed and, moreover, you find your day has actually improved. So, maybe it is his tendency to be charmingly oblivious, or his uncanny ability to gage exactly when you need a large pizza with extra bacon, but you find it impossible to take anything out on him. You don’t know how its going to happen, but it probably will. And when it does, one of you will undoubtedly become a rabid dog and one of you will be the bad guy. Not knowing is still going to kill you, but, honestly, things could be worse.

"There Used to Be Pigs Here"

by Courtney O’Donnell

Red piles of stinking organs

Sizzling poison rising from pavement

Squealing machinery chugging violently

Dust circling empty sidewalks

Crumbling masonry, pigeon nest infestation.

Vacant labyrinth of railroad track tentacles.

There used to be pigs here,

where the setting sun meets the river.

This is where my grandfather and his father

stayed poor and Irish.

They had to shut it down

for my dad to become American.

You can still see the outline,

superimposed under new lofts fashioned into old factories,

of this place Sinclair called relentless

and Grandpa called a living.

Four of us or more

break into a basement

through a fire escape and a window.

and Tip toe past the unconscious

and Jump over the vermin

and Hold each other’s hands.

The death closet is so far underground

cement and brick

with dull steel hooks.

We wonder silently,

what would have come of us if,

still, there were pigs here.