Single-Horned
Single-horned creature of magic. Mythical horse holds hypnotic power over little girls, jumps over sparkly rainbows, and even hangs with virgins. Smack in the middle of its forehead, a spire of keratin over bone—or maybe alicorn. Google odd facts about unicorns, and “Scotland” pops up. Imagination unlimited screeches to a halt. The equestrian creature of our dreams is the national animal of the Celtic country. For more than 600 years. What? Innocence and Purity and Chivalry and Masculinity are called out by the Scots. As all the cultural reasons. For the mythical creature. To crash down onto Scotland’s coat of arms. Single-horned creature of magic. Transformed into a beast of hero-worship for a kilt-wearing, sword-wielding, blood-thirsty Braveheart.
Multiplicity of Mammas
Under the Congress Avenue Bridge
waiting on the water
champagne toasts first
anticipating a natural wonder.
Wondering if this nightly
serial emergence of bats
would wow me
like crowds from all over
the world testify.
Testifying myself that
once the very first mama
flew out leaving her
pup nesting the night away,
a profusion of Mexican free-tailed bats
took flight.
Flying into a cloud of black wings
flapping, fluttering, though never flailing.
Beating hearts as one¬—
a multiplicity of mammas.
Mammals on wings.
Winging away to
feed on flying bugs
chomping down ten tons
every single night.
No chance of running out of energy
on this quest to nurse their young.
Questing to survive
all 1.5 million
upside down bridge-hangers.
Circle upon circle of black
swoops, swirls, and spirals.
Spiraling above us
out into the darkness.
The atmosphere clears.
Twilight recedes.
Night descends.
Awe envelopes me.
Nelson
I remember the ferry ride across
the sea from Cape Town to Robben Island.
Air thick with anticipation.
A couple from Jordan cut the tension by
pushing people around to get better seats.
Self-appointed captains of an impromptu
game of musical chairs.
I remember the damp cold of
the cement prison corridors,
salty wet air on my cheeks,
listening to a former prisoner,
now a tour guide, talk about sleeping year-round
on a wafer-thin pad next to windows with no glass
and no way to shut out the
South African winter-soaked winds.
I remember reading Mandela’s autobiography
with his day-to-day log of prison life
and never realizing I’d actually stand at his cell,
touching the metal bars that caged him.
I never imagined that incredibly wise,
forgiving man, crumpled on the floor at night
like a pile of discarded clothes.
Big Fat Final Wishes
A cigarette protruding
from every orifice of
her husband’s corpse.
Don’t ask why.
Big fat final wishes
are the stock-in-trade of
Beau’s business
which is almost a calling.
Preparing bodies for the
ultimate departure.
On this particular body
Beau is instructed to
Insert one Marlboro into the mouth.
Insert one into each ear.
Insert one into each nostril.
Insert one into the rectum.
Does the navel count?
What about the . . .
All to help her husband
puff a ciggy
on the other side
on a cushiony white cloud.
Onward and upward and outward
onto eternity.
Now it’s noon
and Beau’s about to
eat a pastrami sandwich
after which
the widow will stop by
and inspect whether
all those insertions
cut the mustard.
Pura Vida Purse and 30 Stitches on His Chin
“Pura Vida.”
That’s the phrase that exploded in my mind
when I first got completely smitten
by the purse in 14 colors.
It’s eye-catching vibe
warmed me like rays of sunshine
on a frigid Chicago day.
I simply could not stop staring.
My first bestie in the whole wide world
Princess Elizabeth from Lancaster
was with me in Manuel Antonio.
Elizabeth, who held my hand while walking
the blocks of Pearl Street when we were
four years old in the capital city of Vermont,
was, well, visibly underwhelmed.
You see, she was a purveyor and curator
of all things vintage, especially luxury goods.
A designer named Scott once grabbed multiple
dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes, and purses
off the tables of Elizabeth’s display in Heart-o-the-Mart.
Scott was shopping for a little movie about a gargantuan
ship. “Titanic,” maybe?
So a $35-dollar sunshine bag
with 14 crocheted flowers and trim,
a linen lining with yet more blooms,
and a snappy, clicky closure device.
It was, to say the least, passé to Elizabeth.
But not to me.
Because it represented so much
of what I love about Costa Rica.
The place I visited every year for
20 years. The people who are the
most gentle, generous, and genuine
I’ve met anywhere, anytime.
Wrap that all up in a saying
that they use. All. The. Time.
“Pura Vida.”
This catch-all term translates literally as
“Pure Life”
but it can mean so much more.
“How are you?” or “Have a wonderful day,” or
“I hear you” or “I’m with you” or “Isn’t life great!”
And on and on with uses of this
phrase with myriad meanings.
A sunny umbrella catch-all.
On the flip side— literally flip the blade—
there are the machetes of Costa Rica.
Ubiquitous weapons in leather pouches
sometimes with colored thread
that almost every man outside of
San José carries as an all-purpose tool
because he may need to whack away some
long grass in the jungle.
Could be a similar kind of machete that
slashed the face of my long-ago
high school friend last Friday.
He’s a prosecutor who bumped into a
unhinged defendant in a parking lot
in Washington state.
Now my friend sports 30 stitches on the
left side of his chin.
I always wondered why that weapon, el machete,
showed up in my life with profundity
way down there near the equator.
Worn on the hip of so many chicos y caballeros I met.
Like another kind of purse.
Only this time, no “Pura Vida.”
*****
Holly Marihugh, M.A., is a poet and writer living near Lake Michigan just north of Chicago. Her work has appeared in The Review, The Opiate, and Ink Nest Poetry. A lover of literary fiction, she also leads book discussions at her local library. Find more of her writing here: penandperspective.substack.com.
