SUGAR MAGNOLIA WILSON
Home Alone 2 (with you)
You’ve been talking shit no one understands,
the way you do when you’re drunk – and
because English is your second language
people can’t be sure if you’re super-smart
and talking over their heads or if
you’re actually just free-styling your own
version of the exquisite corpse.
I think it’s the funniest thing ever.
on the hot mat and turn on the TV.
doing little air-punching movements
‘cause we’re in love and you’re so foreignly
hot and Home Alone 2 is on and
there is nothing better I could imagine
watching right now.
the character-forming section
of his trials and tribulations by the time
we tune in – his blonde locks lapping like
pure shine around his pink exclamation-
that you do – putting on house shorts and
a singlet, rolling around on the mat, talking
Kevin and his family realise how much they
mean to one another, I say. His absence
is what hurts but matters the most.
It’s a coming of age story.
I forget you’re there.
despair. He misses his mother. He goes to
the Rockefeller Christmas tree and prays for
only one thing, to see her again. And then there
she is, calling his name.
what my mind has for years – that I won’t
ever find a tree laced bright enough with
festive lights to guide my own mother through
dark city streets. There are no streets that
connect our separate worlds.
watching me the whole time – and even
though neither of us has spoken and I’ve
not started to cry yet you say really quietly
Mags, do you miss your mother?
I cry in front of you for the first time. I cry
on you for what seems hours and
your white top feels like the fabric of some cradle
and for a while you let me be a kid again, a kid who
got lost and can’t seem to find her mother anywhere,
no matter how hard she looks.
Millions of iced flowers are falling from the sky.
You are drawing a graph to show me how love changes
walk along the x-axis, holding hands.
starting low the days after we met at the club and then
creeping up. Come November and the line rockets skyward.
This is how much I love you now.
snow has covered everything.
your house and your heart will turn
blood mingling to a rich beet coloured soil,
your bones some kind of ash like your father uses
around the strawberry plants.
who is, after all, just over the fence in the house – but you’ll
sound like the long grass, the frogs, the dogs herding cattle.
the road, the river and a patch of grass
where he will tend to sit from now on.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sugar Magnolia Wilson is from Fern Flat, a valley in the Far North region of New Zealand. She completed her MA in Creative Writing at the IIML in 2012. She has had work published in Minarets and has upcoming work in JAAM 30 and Shenandoah. Sometimes she feels like a jellyfish on the creative tides. Sometimes she feels like a shark. But mostly a jellyfish.