michael milligan
Aftermath
What I dare not say is why
the white door to that house
should be painted black.
Old Ford rusting in the yard
like a Baptist preacher why
I won’t say—told him—
he give me a cross to bear about sin.
Promised he wouldn’t
but called my mother anyway.
So I ran but that yellow dog growling
in the woods two hills over scared me.
Peed my pants so I had to go back home.
Otherwise I might have run forever.
Wasn’t thinking straight.
I was only eleven for God’s sake.
The car upholstery red enough
to show no stain. Who I won’t say.
Ain’t dead yet.
I cleaned up with paper towels
and hid the trash. Would have flushed
but the plumbing never worked.
Friday nights the men brought kegs
and bottles.
Cut themselves with talk
until they bled whiskey in their stupor.
The night Father beat Tom Henry senseless
Tom told him he’d do me behind
the laurel bush. I hunched on the stoop
staying so small. Oh the pounding.
Like groans glued on Tom’s lips.
Michael milligan
Michael Milligan has worked as a construction laborer, migrant fruit and grape picker, homestead farmer and graphic arts production manager. Also a musician/composer, artist and writer. He co-founded Poetry Oasis Worcester and was privileged to be an editor with Diner. His poetry book reviews, fiction and poems have appeared in Agni, Diner, The New Orleans Review, The Valparaiso Review, Chaffin Journal, Blue Earth Review, Illuminations and others. He is the author of Unless I Came Back to Tell You from Kelsay Books.