Stacie McCall Whitaker - Stone Coast, Maine

When I Was Little, In Roanoke

Written By: Alex MacConochie

We would stand among the murmurations
Lifting from our poplars, gardens, twilight
Purple roofs of houses, pine-sweet hill
Rising from behind them to become

Billows, whorls, a vast obscure intention
That blotted out sunset, jets’ trails, Hale
-Bopp comet that will not be seen again
For centuries: stasis of motion, dark-white ice

Burning its way past the moon (pale thumb
Pressed almost through the sky) and whisper
Wings’ roar, a hungry quiet, cop cars parked
At our street’s end, thin rifles’ pop, how one

Dark body would plummet from the quickened
Circulation, a sloppy, slow spiral from above
Mill Mountain to the neighbors’ lawn, what
Has to be done they said (and a comet’s

Not a meteor, too lasting or predictable
Or communal to be wished upon)

About the Author

Alex MacConochie is currently pursuing a PhD in English Literature at Boston University, where he teaches writing and directs a theater company devoted to the plays of Shakespeare’s lesser-known contemporaries. His poems have appeared in Cargo, Vilas Avenue, the Fredericksburg Literary and Arts Review, and elsewhere.