Madrid En Mayo
I see San Isidro fireworks
through my bedroom window.
I sit alone
—shocked,
fixated.
Soda pop fizzes.
I flick off the light
as quickly as I can.
A neon shock of
dandelion seeds blow away
in the Mediterranean.
I’d decided to decline invitation to Retiro
I decide to open the window.
Something I’ve never done at night
alone
in my dark room.
As I turn the latch the city
holds her breath.
She doesn’t know
what I will say.
I look
at the fire haze in the sky
ten minutes pass by
before I close
the window
and turn on the light.
Burgundy
Carpeted church floor
where mold grew from
left over moisture.
That carpet
could
mauve-stain
K n e e s.
Underneath our fingernails
milkier;
b
u
r
g
u
n
d
y
d
r
i
b
b
l
e
s
scraped off the side
of altar candles
at the end of service.
My sister took first plunge
tip-of-finger dipping
into satisfying
—scalding—
wax.
I, one of few
Methodists
who knew how to receive
the body
with cupped palms
—Thanks be to God!—
followed Benediction
and sister
immediately to the kitchen
opened the round, silver
juice tray
with holiest abandon
and tipped back burgundy
Welch’s shots
like a barkeep’s daughter.
Madelyn Parker as born and raised in Oklahoma. Her work appears in The Scarab, and The Red Earth Review. She has previously interned at Mongrel Empire Press, and will graduate from Oklahoma City University with a BA in English in 2019.
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