Bridget Murphy
We drank Starlac warm with lumps.
If we were lucky, Mom would make it
the night before. In July, Dad
took us to the backyard, pointing up
at the dark sky, dew on our bare feet.
If we had the internet,
we could’ve researched
that the moon measures time,
that Carnation tastes best.
Starlac didn’t make the list.
How was I to know
that milk came in cold quarts?
that you need rock salt to make ice cream?
On Saturdays, Leah Rose Cutter
and her mom took me to the book mobile.
We listened to the radio:
“Everyone’s gone
to the moon.” Leah cracked
her books, a pile of scrambled
eggs, licked her plate.
Mrs Cutter asked if I wanted
bologna or cheese. I said,
either would be fine. She said
people who don’t say
what they want around here,
don’t get anything. I left
my shoes at the door. I thought
I was being polite. How was I to know
that milk could feel
like the fine surface of the moon,
almost like powder. Very fine.
***
Bridget Murphy received an MA in English with an emphasis on the teaching of writing from Georgetown University. She has taught English at North Hennepin Community College for the last 30 years. Bridget is a writer of poetry and non-fiction with a recent publication entitled “The Last Rites” in a collection of Irish Minnesota writers: The Harp and The Loon Anthology: Literary Bridges between Ireland and Minnesota.