Jessie Lynn McMains
Lilac Palace, 1987
In a Genesee County backyard there was
a hideaway, a huge lilac bush with a hollow
just big enough for a scrawny six-year-old
to fit in, I called it the Lilac Palace, crawled
in there with my pink plastic radio and candy
cigarettes, bubblegum, jelly bracelets in rainbow
colors, jelly sandals, 1987 all over, I made believe
and the boughs wove themselves into castle walls,
the scent of the small purple flowers was my faerie
perfume, the flat rock I sat on my throne, I became
Queen Mab, Queen of the May, my plastic beads
and bangles were precious jewels, a broken branch
my scepter and I ruled over a kingdom of squirrels
and cardinals and my trusty dog became my guardian,
fierce gryphon—eagle-winged, lion-pawed beastie, or
the music on my radio turned my fantasy to pop, I was
an ‘80s star, dreamed my hair wild-dyed & teased up to
the heavens, dreamed baubles and spangles, lycra and lace,
I could be Madonna or Cyndi, The Go-Go’s, The Bangles,
all of them at once, papa don’t preach, I had the beat, wanted
to have fun, walk like an Egyptian, sometimes I was even
Billy, an Idol in motorcycle gloves, peroxided & pouting,
sneering: start again. C’mon. Or not: sometimes my world
was nothing more than itself, but itself was enough. Sweet
mutt sleeping in the just-mown grass, which smelled of just-
snapped green beans and grape jelly, the squirrels chittering
and the cardinals’ loud, down-slurred whistle, the blood-
feathered male and the female’s muted garb, flat rock warm
beneath me, and me, sugar-stoned, the boughs overhead
and the lilacs the color of bruises, and above that the sky
turning the color of lilacs, dusk coming on, all that, my
soundtrack the songs on my pink plastic radio, cutting
through the pseudo-suburban static, me, alone, safe from
factories closing, marriages dissolving, safe from the house
of brick and all its yelling, and it was summer and if I could
slow the pace of nightfall I might never have to go inside again.
a hideaway, a huge lilac bush with a hollow
just big enough for a scrawny six-year-old
to fit in, I called it the Lilac Palace, crawled
in there with my pink plastic radio and candy
cigarettes, bubblegum, jelly bracelets in rainbow
colors, jelly sandals, 1987 all over, I made believe
and the boughs wove themselves into castle walls,
the scent of the small purple flowers was my faerie
perfume, the flat rock I sat on my throne, I became
Queen Mab, Queen of the May, my plastic beads
and bangles were precious jewels, a broken branch
my scepter and I ruled over a kingdom of squirrels
and cardinals and my trusty dog became my guardian,
fierce gryphon—eagle-winged, lion-pawed beastie, or
the music on my radio turned my fantasy to pop, I was
an ‘80s star, dreamed my hair wild-dyed & teased up to
the heavens, dreamed baubles and spangles, lycra and lace,
I could be Madonna or Cyndi, The Go-Go’s, The Bangles,
all of them at once, papa don’t preach, I had the beat, wanted
to have fun, walk like an Egyptian, sometimes I was even
Billy, an Idol in motorcycle gloves, peroxided & pouting,
sneering: start again. C’mon. Or not: sometimes my world
was nothing more than itself, but itself was enough. Sweet
mutt sleeping in the just-mown grass, which smelled of just-
snapped green beans and grape jelly, the squirrels chittering
and the cardinals’ loud, down-slurred whistle, the blood-
feathered male and the female’s muted garb, flat rock warm
beneath me, and me, sugar-stoned, the boughs overhead
and the lilacs the color of bruises, and above that the sky
turning the color of lilacs, dusk coming on, all that, my
soundtrack the songs on my pink plastic radio, cutting
through the pseudo-suburban static, me, alone, safe from
factories closing, marriages dissolving, safe from the house
of brick and all its yelling, and it was summer and if I could
slow the pace of nightfall I might never have to go inside again.
Biography
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Jessie Lynn McMains (they/them) is a poet, writer, zine-maker, small press publisher, and spoken word performer. They are the author of multiple chapbooks, most recently The Girl With The Most Cake and forget the fuck away from me. They have been publishing their own and others’ writing in zines and chapbooks since 1994, and have been performing their work across the US and Canada since 1998. They were the 2015-2017 Poet Laureate of Racine, WI, and currently write a reoccuring column for Pussy Magic. You can find their personal website at recklesschants.net, or follow them on Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram @rustbeltjessie
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