Maggie Mckenna
Maggie Mckenna was born into a family of crazed, Irish-step dancing, musical monkeys. She had a hard time keeping her arms still, and—being the only redhead—knew she was destined for greatness. Greatness, such as it is, leaves little room for boxes, blocks, stillness, or quiet. This is why you will rarely see Ms. Mckenna sitting still, quiet, or not taking every opportunity to tickle, climb, or kick you in the goddamn shins. It is much more important to be dancing, singing, or beating Triscuit boxes, than to be tactful or solemn. Though she refuses to drink water (her mother tells her Gatorade is good enough), a desert will never dry her, a classroom cannot hold her, and the sea cannot drown her (as she is much more inclined to lure your drowning ass to the murky depths with her sultry, sultry voice). Ask her for a poem, and she’ll give you much more…. Ask her about the dead cows.
Works:
|
Students:
Back to Crafts of Writing: Poetry Section 1
|
