Sean Thomas Dougherty
Sean Thomas Dougherty's most recent book is Death Prefers the Minor Keys from BOA Editions. He works as a Medtech and long-term Caregiver in Erie PA. His website is seanthomasdoughertypoet.com.
Golden Shovel with Alejandra Pizarnik’s Sombras de los días a venir
My friend Manny clicks his tongue & says Manana
When he leaves the pool hall—they’ll
Work hard he & his older brother, dress
In boots & overalls, on the construction crew & me
I’ll drive when they are asleep or drinking, to work in
Scrubs. The Puerto Rican women who work as aids will ash
Their smokes outside on break & ask for
The list of open shifts—they fight for all overtime, tell the
Same litany of complaints. We’ll labor till alba,
When Madelaine drives up blasting salsa. They’ll
Catch up code-shifting between form & street, they fill
The facility with color— azul, verde, rojo—like the autumn leaves. My
Friend Manny works seven days a week, his mouth
Can say motherfucker in two languages with
A rare fluency. Or he can be tender as flores
Blooming in clay pots on a fire-escape. If you confess, I’ll
Visit my mother next week, she has cancer, he’ll learn
Your troubles as if taking notes & remember to
Ask how she is next time he sees you. At work tonight sleep
Is rare & the people I care for are yelling inside
Their heads with delusions— the
Woman claims her father threw out all her clothes. Her memory
Is a mix-tape of the past & fantastic fabrications of
People who are dead. They return as grievances. We tape a
Photocopy of her father’s photo on the wall.
She tears it up then claims someone stole it. But it is short shift from loss on
Loss to belonging. I click onto a video channel & the
Music changes her, she starts to Karaoke. I check the breath
Of those who are asleep, whose oxygen gets low, of
Those who might fall out of bed, or need help like a
Man who will shout out when he is still dreaming
Curled up like a comma, murmurous as any animal.
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Image by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels
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