“Long Term Nuclear Waste Warning” by Connor McMahon

Long Term Nuclear Waste Warning

There is a place where grief is endless.
The first house, contiguous strips of wood
Wrapping themselves from floor to ceiling,
Dust that never stops snowing from the rafters,
And wolf spiders that cower in the dark corners of our closets.
The first time he left, I went there.
I spent hours scouring floorboards and countertops,
Scrubbing until even the underside of my fingernails were pink and spotless,
Though bleeding.
When he returned, it took him three days to look me in the eyes.

This place is not a place of honor.

Gas station parking lot littered with hardened black gum residue,
Unmistakable scent of his tobacco packed into a stranger’s lip.
My initial inclination is to remember the time
He first taught me to pump gas.
I remember, instead, that he never taught me to pump gas at all,
Nor to drive.
The grief festers, congeals,
Turns into something that repels
All that lives in its halls and flinches from the
Black nights I lie as a plank along our wall,
When he walked into our room,
Kissed our sleeping bodies,
His whispered vows that singed our nostrils
Whiskey-cursed.
As an act of courtesy, we ignored the other's
Exhalation that followed his exit.

Connor McMahon

Connor McMahon is a trans, Appalachian poet from Alabama, currently living and writing in Atlanta, Georgia. He is an attender of the Atlanta Friends Meeting and an enthusiastic patron of his local library. His work is forthcoming in Screen Door Review.

Headshot: Skylar Morgan 

Photo Credit: Staff