glitterature for the mobs
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MARGARET SAIGH
​

Picture
Image by Andrea Aidekman

​
​Antigone
my brother watches the scales
shift from his scalp I picked 
him after battle 

light comes in corners
we cross the dance floor
guests move to music’s slow coil
dressed in mirrors
a notice scrolls on a track
contributions from your heart
are appreciated the words
snap against torsos like
the little red bones
 
we reach the ragged gum of foyer
drunk men slap biceps
behind vases of birch
branches women breathe
into one another’s throats
the hearts sit on cushions
like large teeth
 
years ago we saw herons
in a lagoon at least
ten bending in the water
sirens begin drawing us
torsos shine electrical
outlets bloom we cannot see
our reflections on any land
I jam the heart into his chest 
Ode to Shirley
​Then she and her pin had to lie still
                                       
--Anne Carson
PREAMBLE 

Shirley, my manager
my rope
 
industrial plants
making toys and vinyl flooring
were drunk men 
running the length of a bar
screaming 
"I don’t give a fuck about the environment" 
truly, they drained 
the run off into Lake Erie
it became a shining chamber
a formaldehyde soaked lung
my Shirley drank from 

PRESIDENTIAL MOOD 

I pull the ratty dirt
that accumulates on brooms
with ungloved hands
 
I put bills into the register
president faces peering
at its lock mechanism 
lips slighting to the left
 
Shirley, my manager
hates me she calls me
"lazy bitch" 

SHEARS 

Shirley retrieves 
a third slice of pizza
she bottoms out
pints of ice cream
I stand in a bathroom stall 
hating her with the pleasure
of pinching my stomach fat
I used to believe
it could be clipped off
with a scissors 

SWEETENER  

once I saw her at Walmart
she was examining
a 1000-count box 
of Sweet n Low
I didn’t say "hi"
my underwear 
slipped up my butt 

she did not walk
she ambulated
through the Walmart
simultaneously
glossed and starched 

SMOKE BREAK 

per shift she smokes
between four and six 
Marlboro Reds
 
it is not a peaceful
pre-bedtime ritual
rather it turns her
breathing sculptural
like the bodies 
on the Sistine Chapel ceiling 

DAYDREAM 

when she was 19 
she closed a gas station
three evenings a week
she did not
go out dancing 

I imagine she carried a steel bat with her 
I hear she is fading 

fading
could be 
a euphemistic term
for dying 

I imagine her 
stuffed into a casket
in a lilac shirt
embroidered with flowers 

when I die
I hope to get 
the slimmest casket ever
and even then
only occupy a quarter 
of that silky silky cushion

SECRET
 
O Shirley, my manager
my rope
you were young once
let’s go to the mirror
clip ourselves
into light poles
 
Shirley-o-Shirley
I apologize
I treated you
like an arcade game
I know I am unkind
I am classist
I didn’t work very hard
I was concerned
with myself and my camisoles
my vanity is Victorian
I needed a wise man
intervention 
to go fuck myself
maybe a country singer
I love how we both love
in venomous 
representative
ways 

O Shirl, my managing
cruel rope, you embody
every fear
for myself, dying 
on minimum wage I wish
I could tell you
sometimes I curl
into my torso 
I imagine wings
sprouting
from my spine a lover
stroking
a single rib
beautiful
like every beautiful 
​last night 

Margaret Saigh (she/her) is a writer living in Chicago, IL. She is a recent graduate of Oberlin College where she studied English and Creative Writing. Her work has previously been published in A Velvet Giant. Find her on Instagram @chillable.red 
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