November 17, 2020

Kathleen McClung

BEHIND THE WHEEL

Our monthly ritual: he’d ask about my cat,
uncork a bottle, pour us each some wine,
merlot. I’d curse the traffic on the drive—
I-80 East. My father wasn’t bored.
He’d nod, say: Never tailgate. Stay safe.
Rotate your tires and change your oil. He’d ask

about my 401, my landlord, ask
what did the vet advise about old cats’
hairballs? He’d show me articles he’d saved,
websites and blogs he liked. He poured more wine
and reminisced: two terms on the school board,
his office, business trips. Sometimes we’d drive

to Jackson, play poker machines, then drive
back from the hills, still talking poker as
the sun sank, blue lights bloomed on his dashboard,
and twilight blurred the road. He swerved for cats
and, once, some wild turkeys, their feathers wine-
colored, their strutting slow. He kept them safe.

A cop arrested him one night: unsafe,
erratic weaving in a lane while driv-
ing home from chess at Duffy’s bar, more wine
than usual, more checkmates too. I never asked
how many games he lost—too delicate
a point to probe. My father liked the board

at Duffy’s in the back below the old dartboard
that no one used. A quiet tavern, safe—
no brawls, just chess and fondness for a cat
named Stub who slept between the kegs. The drive
from Duffy’s—eight quick blocks. He didn’t ask
to call a cab. He dozed in jail and paid the fines,

apologized in court. The judge liked wine
and chess as well perhaps: she wasn’t bored
or cruel, just firm, assigning Dad the task
of office help, SPCA. They saved
a few, he told me, their spring Kitten Drive
a big success. He typed cage cards for cats

and dogs newly arrived. His fingers swift
on sleek keyboard, he saved to the hard drive:
Old cats are like fine wines. Ask any volunteer.

from A Juror Must Fold in on Herself
2020 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Kathleen McClung: “My father taught me how to play chess when I was about nine, which may partly account for why I love the challenge of writing sestinas. Such a pleasure moving pieces and words strategically around a board or a page. My dad, who died in 2009, always supported my writing, my efforts at artful truth-telling on a variety of subjects, including our family. I miss him and wish he were here now to celebrate my winning the Rattle Chapbook Prize. I’m grateful, though, he missed both Trump and Covid.” (web)

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September 29, 2020

Kathleen McClung

THE SEQUESTERED JUROR WRITES A RONDEAU

You find yourself more grateful for the view
than for the king size mattress because you
don’t sleep with any regularity.
Instead you rise and pull the drapes at three
or four a.m. Bright parking lot is nothing new,

and yet configurations change. Those two
Toyotas just arrived. That powder blue
Mercedes left. Praise flux, mobility.
You find your cell

expands beyond four walls by watching who
emerges from each open door and who
departs. One day you will conclude: Guilty
or Not. (Deadlock’s a possibility.)
One day you’ll leave. For now, here’s what you do.
You fill your cell.

from A Juror Must Fold in on Herself
2020 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Kathleen McClung: “I have taught a variety of literature and writing classes at Skyline College as an adjunct professor for over twenty years. While this seniority gives me a wee bit of job security, I still struggle with all kinds of uncertainties, which may partly account for why I write mostly formal poetry. There is a tangible comfort in the challenge of crafting a sestina, pantoum, ghazal, or sonnet. I may not have adequate health insurance, but my iambs feel good.” (web)

 

Kathleen McClung is the guest on Rattlecast #60! Click here to watch …

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September 3, 2020

Kathleen McClung

THE PUBLIC DEFENDER FIRST APPROACHES THE BOX

My client’s just like you, except he’s not
got gum or ibuprofen in a purse.
His silence is his right. I’ll talk a lot

about the night in question, which was caught
on video. Your call: a blessing or a curse.
My client’s just like you, except he’s not

inclined to ruminate, to dwell on thoughts
of Trump and Pence; he’s clear which one is worse.
His silence is his right. I’ll talk a lot

about police departments, how they’re fraught
with graft, with hotheads prone to pull triggers.
My client’s just like you, except he’s not

received a fair shake from these guys. You ought
to walk inside his shoes, then write some verse.
His silence is his choice. I’ll talk a lot.

Some sentences may leave you cold—some, hot.
My job: to sow a field of doubts through words.
My client’s just like you. Except he’s not.
He’s silent. So are you. But me, I talk a lot.

from A Juror Must Fold in on Herself
2020 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Kathleen McClung: “I have taught a variety of literature and writing classes at Skyline College as an adjunct professor for over twenty years. While this seniority gives me a wee bit of job security, I still struggle with all kinds of uncertainties, which may partly account for why I write mostly formal poetry. There is a tangible comfort in the challenge of crafting a sestina, pantoum, ghazal, or sonnet. I may not have adequate health insurance, but my iambs feel good.” (web)

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