Perdido
poems by
M F Drummy
~92 pages, $15 (+ shipping)
Projected Release Date: September/October 2025
An Advance Sale Discount price of $9. (+ shipping) is available HERE prior to press time. This price is not available anywhere else or by check. The check price is $13.50/book (which includes shipping & sales tax) and should be sent to: Main Street Rag, 12180 Skyview Drive, Edinboro, PA 16412.
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M F Drummy holds a PhD in historical theology from Fordham University. The author of numerous articles, essays, poems, reviews, and a monograph on religion and ecology (Being and Earth), his work has appeared in Allium, Anti-Heroin Chic, Brawl, Emerge, Heimat Review, Hibiscus, Meetinghouse, Muleskinner, Persephone, Poemeleon, Spare Parts, Stickman Review, Winged Penny Review, and many others. Originally from Massachusetts, he and his way cool life partner of over 20 years enjoy splitting their time between the Colorado Rockies and the rest of the planet. He can be found at: Instagram @miguelito.drummalino Website https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/m_f_drummy
Now and then you read poems that remind you how irreducible and necessary poetry is. What these poems do can’t be done in prose. They evoke places that, even if you’ve never been there, feel achingly familiar, and moments that, even though they’re someone else’s memories, feel shockingly like your own. Their intimacy is haunting, their wry humor surprising. Afterwards you put the book down where you can find it again when you need it. ~Marilyn McEntyre, author of Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies
I Think We Can All Agree That Puppy Mills Are a Bad Idea
& I don’t even know that much about them.
I’m not a dog person either (or at least I don’t
think of myself as a dog person since I only
officially had a dog as a pet for less than a week
in my entire life), nor really a cat person or even
a pet person if such a thing actually exists (which
I’m sure it does in some odd Facebook group kind
of way I don’t know about & never will). Although I
did keep a fish named Brad in a glass bowl for about
18 months, once. I fed him the flakes every day &
cleaned his tiny home every other week & he
seemed as happy a creature as could be expected
for one who hangs out 24/7 in a small transparent
container for the whole world to see. No privacy
(that’s why they call it a fishbowl, I guess), nowhere
to go except in a circular infinity of what I often
thought of as some kind of aquatic purgatory, &
then of course he was, in the end, flushed down
the commode, replaced in his bowl by a plant that
promptly died as well. So, when the nice young man
with the trim beard from the humane society gently
accosted me outside Walgreen’s this afternoon, I
signed that petition to ban puppy mills as quickly
as I could without ever once making eye contact.
Arroyo
Cheapened, descending, she dances briefly in
the pink wind, rotisseried airborne like rocks,
tornado split. O pretty pups, what have you
found in that forsaken arroyo? A strange dampness,
bare grass whipped sausage-like beneath
the striated mesa, pelted by sanded sleet,
calling you both home where treats, offered
in the palm of her hand, await. The sleeping cholla –
resistant, patient – slowly spiders itself awake,
its yellow bulbs cold to the touch. Through
her window she spies the twirling crow, threading
its way north, into the squall of snow, the dogs now
warm & safe. She has heard that, on the high road
through Cañones at night, if you are not careful
you can catch the emerald glint in the eyes
of the coyotes reflected in the headlights,
peculiar & astonished. There, in the mute
darkness, upon their king-size bed, one dog
on either side of her worn & swollen hips,
she begins the letting go of him, again.
Bluebirds on the Bus
You take the bus
to an appointment
at the university but
it’s the wrong day.
On the way home,
you notice a young
woman with a child
seated across from you.
She sports a gold
brooch with a bluebird
engraved on it. You
recede into memories
of bluebirds
filling the backyard
during the warm months
of your childhood.
Their gentle warble &
cerulean shade announcing
them as your mother’s
favorite. She would assemble
tiny houses with tiny peaks
where they could stay while
visiting for the season. Miniature
Airbnbs. You tell the woman
how much you admire
her pin. She thanks
you, says she’s
just moved here with
her daughter to start
a new life. She recently
quit drinking & left
an abusive situation. She’s
looking for a meeting.
Can you help with that?
You can. You’ve been sober
for years. You could have
worn a Panama hat today or
speared a white whale or
listened to billie eilish. You
could be lying among leaves on
an expansive green lawn. You
could be nesting in one of your
mother’s tiny houses. You are
heading home on this bus.
