fall 2015 / Poetry 2015 / Volume 46

I Once Had Sex with Halloween — Ron Riekki

A friend of mine made out with Christmas,

but I boned Samhain. It was like falling into a plane

at 7000 miles per year. So much better than kissing

a manger or worse. I don’t know. Someone married

the Fourth of July. It ended in alcoholism.

No one is born on birthdays anymore. It seems

like it’s nothing but drunkenness. I got St. Patrick’s Day

pregnant. They gave me props for that. They gave me

a ladder and a camera, told me to punch Boxing Day

in the face, flatten its archaic nose. My mom told me

that to accomplish your dreams, you need to fall asleep.

She says that you can become anything you want

as long as you want the thing you’re going to end up becoming.

My mother turns into Easter. She is Chinese. I love her

ability to cry at weddings and funerals and in study hall.

I don’t tell her about Halloween. She’d worry about herpes.

But truth is, it gave me scarecrows. There is no cure.

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