Onafhankelijk van geboortedata
De Amerikaanse dichteres Jill McDonough werd geboren in Hartford, Connecticut in 1972 en groeide op in North Carolina. Ze behaalde haar Bachelor of Arts in het Engels aan Stamford University en een MA in creatief schrijven aan Boston University. Ze is getrouwd met barman en muzikant Josey Packard. Ze heeft over haar huwelijk geschreven in een essay getiteld “A Natural History of my Marriage”. Jill McDonough publiceerde o.a. de bundels “Habeas Corpus” (2008), “Where You Live” (2012), “Reaper” (2017), “Here All Night” en meerdere chapbooks, waaronder “Oh, James!” (2012). Zij ontving beurzen van de National Endowment for the Arts, het Fine Arts Work Centre, de New York Public Library, de Library of Congress, de Lannan Foundation en Stanford’s Wallace Stegner-programma. Ook gaf zij 13 jaar lang les aan gedetineerde studenten via het gevangenisonderwijs van de Boston University. Haar werk is verschenen in Poetry, Slate, the Nation, Threepenny Review en Best American Poetry. Ze leidt het MFA-programma op UMass-Boston en 24PearlStreet, het Fine Arts Work Centre online.
Three a.m.
Our cabdriver tells us how Somalia is better
than here because in Islam we execute murderers.
So, fewer murders. But isn’t there civil war
there now? Aren’t there a lot of murders?
Yes, but in general it’s better. Not
now, but most of the time. He tells us about how
smart the system is, how it’s hard to bear
false witness. We nod. We’re learning a lot.
I say—once we are close to the house—I say, What
about us? Two women, married to each other.
Don’t be offended, he says, gravely. But a man
with a man, a woman with a woman: it would be
a public execution. We nod. A little silence along
the Southeast Corridor. Then I say, Yeah,
I love my country. This makes him laugh; we all laugh.
We aren’t offended, says Josey. We love you. Sometimes
I feel like we’re proselytizing, spreading the Word of Gay.
The cab is shaking with laughter, the poor man
relieved we’re not mad he sort of wants us dead.
The two of us soothing him, wanting him comfortable,
wanting him to laugh. We love our country,
we tell him. And Josey tips him. She tips him well.
Twelve-Hour Shifts
A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home
to real life. Showers, eats supper, plays video games.
Twelve hours later he comes back, high-fives, takes over the
drone
from other pilots, who watch Homeland, do dishes, hope they
don’t
dream in all screens, bad kills, all slo-mo freeze-frame.
A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home.
A small room, a pilot’s chair, the mic and headphones
crowd his mind, take him somewhere else. Another day
another dollar: hover and shift, twelve hours over strangers’
homes.
Stop by the store, its Muzak, pick up the Cheerios,
get to the gym if you’re lucky. Get back to your babies, play
Barbies, play blocks. Twelve hours later, come back. Take over
the drone.
Smell of burned coffee in the lounge, the shifting kill zone.
Last-minute abort mission, and the major who forgets your
name.
A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home.
It’s done in our names, but we don’t have to know. Our own
lives, shifts, hours, bounced off screens all day.
A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home;
fresh from twelve hours off, another comes in, takes over our
drone.
Jill McDonough (Hartford, Connecticut, 1972)