FOUR POEMS by E.C. GANNON
All That Is Sacred
Part 3.
Above my bed I’ve pinned a poster
with a glossy photo of the Alamo,
that way every day the first thing
I do when I wake is remember
to remember the Alamo.
Some people write affirmations.
I remember the Alamo.
Some people say prayers.
I remember the Alamo.
Part 6.
Three months ago, when I brought
a woman home from a Texas-themed
bar, I made sure I was kissing her
as we stumbled into my room
so I had time to turn off the lights
and pull the blinds before she
could see the poster. She wouldn’t
understand. She probably thought
I was passionate, caught up in
the eroticism, but I was really
remembering the Alamo.
Part 1836.
The landlord always sends emails
reminding me not to hang anything
from the ceiling because it could ruin
the popcorn, but even he cannot
stop me. Remembering to remember
the Alamo is more important
than my security deposit.
Part 210-225-1391.
There are very few things
sacred in this world.
The Alamo is all of them.
Lincoln, Nebraska
I brought a girl to the restaurant
next to the laundromat behind
the smoke shop. She confessed
that she gets off on photos
of Lincoln, Nebraska.
The couple in the booth beside
us stared with gaping mouths.
A french fry fell out of the man.
I gestured for her to whisper.
It was a classy establishment.
I thought you’d think it was hot.
I brought her home. I slipped
a hand under her dress as she
fingered through a Lincoln tour guide.
A Toast to the Firework Salesman
Family, friends, esteemed guests,
miscellaneous others, as your gracious
host, I’d like to propose a little toast
to the greatest man this town has ever
known; Fred, why don’t you stand up?
Oh come on, don’t be shy;
you know everyone here.
Fantastic! Everyone, raise your glasses
of moonshine and join me in thanking
Fred, our Firework Salesman.
Fred, thank you. Thank you for supplying us
with the spirit of America, the equipment
necessary to set that theatre fire way back,
the explosives I used to burn down that baptistery
and, albeit unintentionally, the old folks’ home
next door, and of course, for always being
willing to lend a hand to your neighbors,
whether that be in the form of sinking some
charred bodies at the reservoir or watching
our fish while we vacation in Newark.
Fred, I thank you. We thank you.
For being a friend, a leader, a role model.
We know you’ll do great things
at the state penitentiary.
The Second Coming
If Jesus is coming,
tell him to bring wine
and bread because
I got caught in traffic
on my way home
and didn’t have time
to stop at the corner
store. Can you please
tell him Mary’s coming,
and that yes, Mary
lost a lot of weight,
but he probably shouldn’t
mention it because it
was the grief that did
her in. Do you know
if he’s still vegan? I only
have ranch dressing.
Could you tell him, kindly,
to ditch the sandals
and toga. It’s a little weird,
but be nice about it. Also,
if he wants to add anything
to the playlist, tell him he
can email me. Tell him
he can bring a plus-one
if he’d like, but make sure
it’s clear that plus one
means one, not twelve.
He got confused last time.
E.C. Gannon's (she/her) poetry and prose has appeared in a couple of magazines. A New England native, she holds a degree from Florida State University.