When we asked Maggie Queeney for permission to discuss her work in this podcast, her response was “this sounds fascinating and terrifying!” We’re considering that as our tag line (and a life philosophy).
When we asked Maggie Queeney for permission to discuss her work in this podcast, her response was “this sounds fascinating and terrifying!” We’re considering that as our tag line (and a life philosophy).
We discussed Queeney’s pieces, "Last Case on the Murder Task Force,” and to be honest, we didn’t want to s...
When we asked Maggie Queeney for permission to discuss her work in this podcast, her response was “this sounds fascinating and terrifying!” We’re considering that as our tag line (and a life philosophy).
When we asked Maggie Queeney for permission to discuss her work in this podcast, her response was “this sounds fascinating and terrifying!” We’re considering that as our tag line (and a life philosophy).
We discussed Queeney’s pieces, "Last Case on the Murder Task Force,” and to be honest, we didn’t want to stop, even when all of the editors’ comments clearly illustrated how the vote would go! This poem’s craft is so beautiful to linger in, even though the images are heart wrenching and tragic.
"Nox” was a little less accessible for us, more difficult to simply understand, but that didn’t deter our enthusiasm for the piece—not with this many arresting images.
"Cry Wolf” takes the classic fable, expounds upon it, and changes it for you forever.
We meant to discuss three poems from Adam Day, but we had such a good time discussing Maggie’s poems that we didn’t feel we had enough time to really get into the discussion, so we thought we’d “reveal” another issue that comes up when culling through work for PBQ.
Adam Day’s work came in via Submittable and was assigned to our Abu Dhabi staff. Two editors there liked a few of his pieces, but alas, before the work could come to the editorial table for a vote, the pieces we had interest in were accepted elsewhere!
Listen to us discuss the “notes” in Submittable. Adam was about to get a straight up boiler plate rejection and she realized he would never know he had fans at PBQ. So, she took action…
Tell us what you think about simultaneous submissions (and anything else) on our Facebook page event, Episode 5.
Sign up for our email list if you’re in the area and even if you’re not!
Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly.
Read on!
-KVM
Present at the Editorial Table:
Kathleen Volk Miller
Marion Wrenn
Jason Schneiderman
Miriam Haier
Tim Fitts
Production Engineer:
Joe Zang
PBQ Box Score: 3=2
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Maggie Queeney
Last Case on the Murder Task Force
A telephone splices the night—lit nerve ending
or lightning strike—and the child rises all lung, all mouth
and howl. The man rises from inside the mother, rises
from the casts of his fingers clutched into the sheets
and separates the boy’s head from his chest.
He runs, knife in hand, body in arms, floor to floor,
beating on doors as the thin limbs jog at his sides.
He palms the boy’s head, guides the jaw back
to the neck, but blood leaks and blacks
his bared chest in the stills taken later that night.
The state assigns my father to the defense. He twists
the tinny, stripped facts into a cast outlining a life.
He tells the jury the man grew up a thing burnt
by his grandfather, his mother, that his thin body smoked
and scabbed taut. And then the foster homes and the beatings
and the drugs and the howl and the boy and the knife.
The state threads a new heart into the man’s chest.
He is kept living. He is sentenced to death. Nights on trial,
my father walks the floor with my infant brother, crouped up
and wailing the mucus out of his lungs, his mouth with a howl.
My mother sleeps, buried tight as a drawered knife,
gleaming through what beauty her children had left.
Nox
A child teethes. Through the door,
a loop of scream and whimper
traces the length of the porch.
Morning, I find the blood
left by the raw gums rubbed
like a hand along the rail,
the floor, the frame and lock
to the front door. At night,
I stay inside, listen to the tap
somnolent in the pipes, the house drafts,
the moon pushing to perfect circle.
The birds curl into their fists
of nest, their small breasts hot hulls
above the shriek of owl-torn mice.
Animals take a human voice
in dying. Their wet tunnels of throat,
slick and holy as the inside of a flute,
bottom into the black running under.
Cry Wolf
What difference between crying and calling,
cursing and summoning, the frantic limbs
of a lamb and the bared legs of a boy.
What difference between the desire to laugh
at the adults running, spades and rakes in hand,
and the need to know they would run at his call.
Remember most do not know the name
of what they want, even as they are wanting—
the body incandesces, numb and ecstatic,
as it is destroyed.
Remember the wolf, drawn only
by gut and jaws, insistent as divining rods—
heart stilling at its name called,
finally, between the trees.
