Mary and Joe McCarthy
By Mary McCarthy
Joe and I met in June 1981 when I was in my last few weeks of nursing school and he was working in one of the last still open steel mills that closed soon after. We were from the same blue collar neighborhood but had not met before. That night my class went out after the late shift to "Skydivers" a neighborhood bar. And Joe was there with friends.
We just started talking and hit it off. Left together and were pretty much together from then on. He took me to meet his mom. We were just so easy and good with each other, it seemed so natural. We got married Feb. 13, 1982. We saw no reason to wait longer!
In some ways we are complete opposites, in others we share deep similarities, but what served us best through all the years was friendship, and humor. No matter what happened we could always laugh, and that saved us through the dark times.
Below are my poems of love before and after Joe.
Choices
I found some things called love
were best avoided
like the sweet faced liar
who robs you blind
and leaves you behind
disposable
as a used tissue
or the one you pick up
like a bad rash
that blisters and torments
and never heals
or the handsome stranger
who puts his mark on you
deep and obvious
as a cattle brand
I would not be caught by love
in crooked definitions
not kept in a closed room
or on a short leash
not loved in teaspoons
or inch by inch
not with a blueprint
or by the book
not with requirements
to recite a catechism
or rehearse a script
but wait for you to come to me
freely
with an open hand
and no great expectations
I would be perfection
or carry your salvation
or do more than meet you here
in the open
where we both can stand
I found some things called love
were best avoided
like the sweet faced liar
who robs you blind
and leaves you behind
disposable
as a used tissue
or the one you pick up
like a bad rash
that blisters and torments
and never heals
or the handsome stranger
who puts his mark on you
deep and obvious
as a cattle brand
I would not be caught by love
in crooked definitions
not kept in a closed room
or on a short leash
not loved in teaspoons
or inch by inch
not with a blueprint
or by the book
not with requirements
to recite a catechism
or rehearse a script
but wait for you to come to me
freely
with an open hand
and no great expectations
I would be perfection
or carry your salvation
or do more than meet you here
in the open
where we both can stand
To the Unexpected Lover
We all have limits
When you asked me to lunch.
you told me
you had loved me
for years.
Since a class we both took
in another time, another place..
I was taken by surprise.
I didn’t even remember you,
and I didn’t know what to do
with your ardent
declarations.
We spent that whole day
together.
You were so wild
a risk taker
amped up with drugs
ready to throw all your
money at my feet
pulling hard
for me to join you
in a dream
I didn’t recognize-
your excess
your intensity was
incandescent
terrifying-
And I was not kind
refusing you
absolutely
to save myself
from your extremity.
We all have limits
When you asked me to lunch.
you told me
you had loved me
for years.
Since a class we both took
in another time, another place..
I was taken by surprise.
I didn’t even remember you,
and I didn’t know what to do
with your ardent
declarations.
We spent that whole day
together.
You were so wild
a risk taker
amped up with drugs
ready to throw all your
money at my feet
pulling hard
for me to join you
in a dream
I didn’t recognize-
your excess
your intensity was
incandescent
terrifying-
And I was not kind
refusing you
absolutely
to save myself
from your extremity.
Until You
I was the girl in the thorn hedge
the nun in a narrow cell
the lady in the stone tower
until you came in fine
and sharp as a chisel
opening my careful walls
of horn and bone
where I sat dark
and wordless
so long a recluse
I had forgotten speech-
You rocked me out
of my long sleep
with one touch
a call answered
in every nerve and sinew
filling the sky with music
like heat lightning
rising from the cradle
of our embrace
where we played our sweet
improvisations
our bodies untethered
singing
a jazz riff
all heat and light and endless
passionate invention
I was the girl in the thorn hedge
the nun in a narrow cell
the lady in the stone tower
until you came in fine
and sharp as a chisel
opening my careful walls
of horn and bone
where I sat dark
and wordless
so long a recluse
I had forgotten speech-
You rocked me out
of my long sleep
with one touch
a call answered
in every nerve and sinew
filling the sky with music
like heat lightning
rising from the cradle
of our embrace
where we played our sweet
improvisations
our bodies untethered
singing
a jazz riff
all heat and light and endless
passionate invention
Soup and Bread
What would you taste like?
Something stubborn
to the tooth, not succulent
but rich, strong, sustaining,
something to chew on
for a long time, to keep
you going even on
the driest desert trek.
No sweet gift from heaven
pale and innocuous
as manna, or thin
communion wafers–
Something more like
your Mama’s czarnina,
that dark and solid
peasant soup
that takes both fruit
and fresh duck blood
to build its full intensity.
I:m sure you would be salty
abrasive as raw language
on the tongue, the necessary
antidote to any liar’s
sweet confections
that melt so quick
and leave you sick
with too much sugar.
You”d taste like woodsmoke
and firelight, like
early morning fog.
You’d turn to me
like tree leaves lifting
their silver undersides
to welcome rain.
You’d bring the spice
to liven any dish
sharp as pepper
warm as nutmeg
so good you don’t
need much to reach
perfection.
You are the leaven
to my ordinary bread
the one essential
that needs no more
than warmth and sweet
intention, to rise and fill
and satisfy
the oldest ache I know
previously published in Gyroscope
For more on Mary:
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/04/storyteller-of-week_28.html
What would you taste like?
Something stubborn
to the tooth, not succulent
but rich, strong, sustaining,
something to chew on
for a long time, to keep
you going even on
the driest desert trek.
No sweet gift from heaven
pale and innocuous
as manna, or thin
communion wafers–
Something more like
your Mama’s czarnina,
that dark and solid
peasant soup
that takes both fruit
and fresh duck blood
to build its full intensity.
I:m sure you would be salty
abrasive as raw language
on the tongue, the necessary
antidote to any liar’s
sweet confections
that melt so quick
and leave you sick
with too much sugar.
You”d taste like woodsmoke
and firelight, like
early morning fog.
You’d turn to me
like tree leaves lifting
their silver undersides
to welcome rain.
You’d bring the spice
to liven any dish
sharp as pepper
warm as nutmeg
so good you don’t
need much to reach
perfection.
You are the leaven
to my ordinary bread
the one essential
that needs no more
than warmth and sweet
intention, to rise and fill
and satisfy
the oldest ache I know
previously published in Gyroscope
For more on Mary:
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/04/storyteller-of-week_28.html
