Spring 2017
By Maura Monaghan
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025
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It’s May in Boston in his boss’s apartment
which he’s renting this summer while he settles in and there’s no furniture yet but the sun hits the hardwood kind of nice which is what I think while we think of more things to say. He won’t let me cook but Christ, the real show of chivalry would be giving me something to do with my hands. He lets me open the wine. This is not the benign task he thinks he’s delegating, because I live in a dorm room and don’t choose my drinks by French region, rather by twist-off cap or no twist-off cap. (The cork is only slightly maimed when I’m through.) I’m impressed by his age but in a few years I will think so he was a fucking kid, too, and aren’t we all just kids the whole damn time, this whole time lucking into people and messing it up, watching a breeze blow clean across an unfurnished bedroom from wooden decks overlooking cramped back alleys gulping spring air when the wine runs out. |
Maura Monaghan grew up in New York and now lives in London. Her work can be found in HAD, Dishsoap Quarterly, and Drunk Monkeys, and she can be found on Instagram @maura_monaghan.
Author’s Note:
“Jet Lag” is about visiting home after a long time, it’s a sort of lazy walk around your old town remembering things. “Spring 2017” is taking a lighter look at a scenario that felt very nerve-wracking/larger than life at the time, but wanes in importance once you’re looking back at it. I really wanted this poem to have a certain musicality; I hope the sound of it when read aloud evokes the fast pace of “butterflies in your stomach” that I’m trying to illustrate with the words as well.