One time at our Stop and Shop we saw
our usual junkie saying mama can I
get a quarter hey boss lady you got a dollar
for me. I am mama, Josey’s boss
lady, duh. Since the pope said give without worry
we keep singles in our center console, outside
pockets of our bags, give to everybody
as long as they last. Even the shirtless, strung
out, scratching their dear bare bellies in the Stop
and Shop parking lot. We hooked him up, smiled
and said good luck, walked off, so he got a good
look at us; me in a dress, Josey looking like
a little man, me carrying all the bags.
Me carrying all the bags for the last time, it
turns out, because our beloved gender-policing
junkie shamed the butch, calling out to me
You shouldn’t be the one carrying the bags,
baby—Jamaica Plain junkie, still there
enough to give us a ration of shit, to flirt
a little, see who wears the pants. Baby,
boss lady, mama, mami; we give it back,
we darling we sweetheart it up. Thank you sweetheart
take care of yourself I say to everyone
who’ll god bless me in traffic on Methadone Mile.
Me giving out ones at redlights, thanking the pope
for this pleasure, daily trading of smiles,
teasing, god bless. We quote our junkie when
we shop, pass through security. We haven’t yet
given him nearly enough for what-all he’s given us.
—Jill McDonough
Jill McDonough teaches in UMass-Boston’s MFA program. Her poetry has been appearing in The Threepenny Review since the summer of 2004.
