BIG COTTON SUN
by Michael Murray
ISBN 1-930907-33-8
Published as part of the 2003 MSR Chapbook Contest
SHOOTING UP JESUS
I guess maybe things could be better. Me and Jesus
got a little apartment. He helps out with the heat,
electricity, the rent. We sleep late, we do heroin
all night; we keep the blinds down so the sun
doesn’t get in our eyes in the morning. The air
gets stale in our place, the paper never gets read,
we keep it to wipe up the vomit. He tells me, “I spoke in red,
you know that? In the gospels. No black print for Jesus,
no fucking newspaper similarity. I am the heir
to a great kingdom. I am The Way, The Truth, and The Heat.”
Our T.V.’s not too good, but one day I see the sun
in eclipse, black and white, and my roommate asks for heroin,
His halo bruised, tilted to one side like His heroin
nod. I’m not stupid. There’s things I’ve read
about Divinity, Salvation; about the Son
of God. I shake my head at Jesus.
“What good are you to anyone,” I ask, “shooting heat
everyday? You’re drowning. What about air?
Do you know anyone who can survive without air?”
“Well, look at you,” He says. “You breathe heroin.
If we took it away there’d be no more heat
in your body. The color would drain from your little red
cheeks.” He smiles. “There’d just be Jesus
left behind to fill your veins with Liquid Sun.”
I sleep on the couch, He has His own room. The Son
of God gets privileges. He lends me His Air
Jordans when we need to score, ChristSpeed, blessed by Jesus.
His eyes glitter with lust when I return with heroin.
I pull the bag from my coat pocket, a red
coat, dusted with snow. He says, “Turn up the heat.
Light the stove. Get ready to cook. Turn up the heat
first, I’m cold.” I oblige Him. He’s here, like a sun
in the middle of the floor, and I circle Him, His companion red
satellite, and it’s hard to breathe; He exhausts the air.
My simmering face in the bent spoon, and the heroin
rushes the needle. I genuflect and shoot up Jesus.
He has visions, the red wings of Satan dance in the air
before Him, Hell’s fire and heat in the rush of the heroin.
I see the sun in eclipse, shrouded, the dissolving face of Jesus.
PORTUGUESE SECRETS
When Mary appeared at Fatima she whispered Portuguese secrets
into Lucia’s ear.
When Mary appeared at Fatima only the girls could hear,
Francisco unworthy, Francisco impure.
When Mary appeared Lucia was ten, Francisco was nine,
and Jacinta was seven.
When Mary appeared at Fatima she showed the children her
Immaculate Heart pumping virgin red, unstained.
When Mary appeared at Fatima she said to Jacinta,
“You’re not as pretty as that French girl.”
When Mary appeared she instructed the children to rejoice
in their suffering.
When Mary appeared at Fatima the children were ten, nine,
and seven years old.
When Mary appeared at Fatima she said to Francisco,
“Juan Diego presented a cloak of roses. What do you have
to offer?” Marydeaf Francisco ran in circles chanting,
“What’d she say? What’d she say?”
When Mary appeared she warned the children that Russia would spread
its errors, but they could prevent it by praying the rosary.
When Mary appeared to the children Lucia asked if they would
all go to heaven. “Yes,” Mary said, smirking and pointing
at Francisco and Jacinta, “but some sooner than others.”
When Mary appeared at Fatima she showed the children
a black and white slide show of hell. Francisco asked for a soda
but there weren’t any cold.
When Mary appeared at Fatima she whispered secrets into Lucia’s ear:
Keep this to yourself, she said.
Don’t quit your day job.
Soft-serve ice cream is the wave of the future, she said.
If six turned into nine, I wouldn’t mind, she said.
This end up.
When Mary appeared at Fatima she whispered secrets into Lucia’s
ear:
Apples, peaches, pumpkin, pie, watch me twirl the sun in the sky.
Don’t ever tell the priest where Daddy touched you, she said.
You might be wondering why I didn’t go right to the pope
with this.
It’s a high drive to deep left field, she said.
Exterminate the brutes, she said.
SAINT JOSEPH
pulls into Nazareth at sunset in a faded, gold
’72 Ranchero, chocolate side panels
and a white vinyl soft-top over the bed.
He’s been driving since morning
but stopped six miles back at the Amoco
to splash some water on his face, drag
a wet comb through his hair, change his shirt.
Joseph has a few things going for him.
He can document his bloodline back to David.
He’s a hard worker, owns his own business,
and has a letter of introduction
tucked into the back pocket of his jeans
with Gabriel’s very own stamp at the bottom.
He has a dependable car.
Saint Joseph is twenty minutes early
for his 6:30 appointment with a young girl
and her parents. Sure, he’s nervous, palms
sweaty as he consults the directions.
But it’s Nazareth, and he’s been Visited.
A Buck Owens’ compilation in the tape deck.
He is sublime; vapor; filled with all confidence.
Michael Murray grew up in Orange County, California. He received an Associate of Science Degree in Electronics from Don Bosco Technical Institute, Rosemead, California; a Bachelor of Arts in Literature from the University of California at Santa Cruz; and a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, Fiction, from the University of Michigan. His stories and poems have appeared in Hawaii Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Route One, The Threepenny Review, and other magazines. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, Danielle.