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POETRY / ROOM FOR PARTY / Jill McDonough

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Make room for party.  Make way for baby.  HELL
YEAH my sweater says with a skull that's what 
happens when you get drunk at lunch in Montreal 
and then go shopping HELL YEAH. Make room 
for yes. The dim sum place by Dumpling Café has it 
both ways. Empire Garden says one side of its marquee;
Emperor Garden the other. So it hides, even though
with proscenium, murals, gold everywhere, gold 
dragon and crane with red lights for eyes, seven 
dollar scorpion bowls, synchronized squads of ladies 
with their carts of chicken feet, shrimp noodle, chive 
dumpling, beef ball. We love it. They advertise ROOM 
FOR PARTY, which we take in, co-opt, say I have 
room for party, you? You always have room 
for party. I think I have a little room left for party.  
I’m tired. No room for party. Get a room, let’s party.
You don’t need much room for party. Josey and I 
on the 39 coming home from a date, making out
on the bus, in the car wash—you two still make out?
asks Nellie. Hell Yeah, Nellie—cracking each 
other up in the aisle—no room for two middle-aged 
ladies to sit. And then the babydyke, her earnest haircut, 
sweet round face, said, You two are so inspiring,
toddle-swaggered off the bus. In our father’s 
mansion there are so many rooms for party: 1. 7. 45.  


Jill McDonough is the author of three books, available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/s?k=jill+mcdonough&ref=nb_sb_noss_1