Milo Gallagher
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
(1977)
I.
My father
grew up next to the cemetery
full of his family’s bones
camellias and fire ants
broken-fingered Jesus at the center
palms outstretched grew up jumping
into freezing creeks parachuting G.I. Joes
from the cottonwoods
grew up decorating himself with
grease paint & rubber masks &
scaring his sister my grandfather said
wipe that shit off your face my father
grew up alone
II.
The producers pick Fairhope,
Alabama, because of its vast expanses
of cornfield and bay, the lonely feeling of a place
where extraterrestrials might choose to land.
(The sun comes out with the moon.
Objects start to move and buzz. Richard Dreyfuss
is going to lose his mind). My father is a starstruck
slowtalking sixteen-year-old from the darkroom
at the Fairhope Courier, and his new job
is to build model trees all night. (Outside, the gentle glow
of flying saucers. The looming mountain.) At home
my grandfather’s silence seams the air
like hot glue, visible and volatile.
III.
What I know about
Steven Spielberg:
his parents
divorced when he was sixteen
his first movie
made a profit of one dollar
his idea
for Close Encounters:
a meteor shower
in Haddon Township, New Jersey
Steven stands next to his father,
watching fiery rocks hurtle across the night sky
from a radiant point that recedes until
he can’t see it anymore, even
when squinting
The stars are painfully bright
IV.
Some men spend their whole lives
trying to be somebody. Some are born
knowing how to speak with aliens.
They were never introduced, but my father
likes to tell the story of how, on set,
Spielberg borrowed a horse
from a nearby farmer and rode off
down a dirt road.
The crew fretted, leaking
daylight hours and budget money.
Spielberg had barely cracked his 30s.
Had already made Jaws. The arm he didn’t break
when he didn’t fall off that horse
was already worth a preposterous sum.
My father deliberated that eternal summer,
pulling strips of negatives from the stop bath,
the merits of going and not going to film school.
Gallaghers were construction workers.
Barbers, occasionally.
The movie ended up nominated
for eight Oscars. Grossed box office millions.
My father became an architect, moved to Texas,
built homes for other people
under a cloudless sky. Built worlds
that way.
(1977)
I.
My father
grew up next to the cemetery
full of his family’s bones
camellias and fire ants
broken-fingered Jesus at the center
palms outstretched grew up jumping
into freezing creeks parachuting G.I. Joes
from the cottonwoods
grew up decorating himself with
grease paint & rubber masks &
scaring his sister my grandfather said
wipe that shit off your face my father
grew up alone
II.
The producers pick Fairhope,
Alabama, because of its vast expanses
of cornfield and bay, the lonely feeling of a place
where extraterrestrials might choose to land.
(The sun comes out with the moon.
Objects start to move and buzz. Richard Dreyfuss
is going to lose his mind). My father is a starstruck
slowtalking sixteen-year-old from the darkroom
at the Fairhope Courier, and his new job
is to build model trees all night. (Outside, the gentle glow
of flying saucers. The looming mountain.) At home
my grandfather’s silence seams the air
like hot glue, visible and volatile.
III.
What I know about
Steven Spielberg:
his parents
divorced when he was sixteen
his first movie
made a profit of one dollar
his idea
for Close Encounters:
a meteor shower
in Haddon Township, New Jersey
Steven stands next to his father,
watching fiery rocks hurtle across the night sky
from a radiant point that recedes until
he can’t see it anymore, even
when squinting
The stars are painfully bright
IV.
Some men spend their whole lives
trying to be somebody. Some are born
knowing how to speak with aliens.
They were never introduced, but my father
likes to tell the story of how, on set,
Spielberg borrowed a horse
from a nearby farmer and rode off
down a dirt road.
The crew fretted, leaking
daylight hours and budget money.
Spielberg had barely cracked his 30s.
Had already made Jaws. The arm he didn’t break
when he didn’t fall off that horse
was already worth a preposterous sum.
My father deliberated that eternal summer,
pulling strips of negatives from the stop bath,
the merits of going and not going to film school.
Gallaghers were construction workers.
Barbers, occasionally.
The movie ended up nominated
for eight Oscars. Grossed box office millions.
My father became an architect, moved to Texas,
built homes for other people
under a cloudless sky. Built worlds
that way.
Body Horror II: Julien Donkey-Boy
(1999)
At art school we learn how to never call our parents
and how to watch the most painful of movies.
We’ve all been indoctrinated by Pulp Fiction and Fight Club,
that teen boyfriend double feature,
the one where he says “Wait til the ending,
this shit will blow your mind” and hits the bong.
We’ll forgive the boys anything, if they’re cute enough.
A Clockwork Orange taught us that. And so we build
our boarding school syllabus. The Exorcist, Antichrist,
Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It’s a game and the first person
to look away loses something, though we’re not sure what.
In the drafty studio, we huddle beneath Melanie’s paintings.
Refreshments are Red Bull and cigarettes smoked in the bathroom
with the shower running hot, but never popcorn,
we hate our bodies too much for that.
Gummo and Kids make us fall in love with Chloe Sevingny,
the weird waif we all wish we could be.
We all want to be Harmony Korine’s muse – jealous, we work
through their filmography, learning the rules of Dogma 95
and, soon, our own mantra: “We could do this too.”
But then there’s Julien: 90 minutes of murder and abuse
before Chloe falls on the ice, hard.
A miscarriage, a stillbirth. Ewen Bremner
takes the fetus home on the bus.
Melanie covers her face. Taylor leaves the room,
hand over her mouth. I stare at the screen
and think about how it happened to me.
About trying not to look at the red shape in the toilet bowl.
About not feeling any emptier, just full of cramps. My boyfriend
watching Pulp Fiction in the next room, and how,
when I told him, he would still refuse to wear condoms.
At fifteen, I already know that even when alone,
even curled on the tile floor of a bathroom,
the truth of my body is that it can never be mine.
The men will draft their scripts,
smear Vaseline on the camera lens, and hand it back to me,
and I’ll take it, I’ll swallow it whole.
(1999)
At art school we learn how to never call our parents
and how to watch the most painful of movies.
We’ve all been indoctrinated by Pulp Fiction and Fight Club,
that teen boyfriend double feature,
the one where he says “Wait til the ending,
this shit will blow your mind” and hits the bong.
We’ll forgive the boys anything, if they’re cute enough.
A Clockwork Orange taught us that. And so we build
our boarding school syllabus. The Exorcist, Antichrist,
Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It’s a game and the first person
to look away loses something, though we’re not sure what.
In the drafty studio, we huddle beneath Melanie’s paintings.
Refreshments are Red Bull and cigarettes smoked in the bathroom
with the shower running hot, but never popcorn,
we hate our bodies too much for that.
Gummo and Kids make us fall in love with Chloe Sevingny,
the weird waif we all wish we could be.
We all want to be Harmony Korine’s muse – jealous, we work
through their filmography, learning the rules of Dogma 95
and, soon, our own mantra: “We could do this too.”
But then there’s Julien: 90 minutes of murder and abuse
before Chloe falls on the ice, hard.
A miscarriage, a stillbirth. Ewen Bremner
takes the fetus home on the bus.
Melanie covers her face. Taylor leaves the room,
hand over her mouth. I stare at the screen
and think about how it happened to me.
About trying not to look at the red shape in the toilet bowl.
About not feeling any emptier, just full of cramps. My boyfriend
watching Pulp Fiction in the next room, and how,
when I told him, he would still refuse to wear condoms.
At fifteen, I already know that even when alone,
even curled on the tile floor of a bathroom,
the truth of my body is that it can never be mine.
The men will draft their scripts,
smear Vaseline on the camera lens, and hand it back to me,
and I’ll take it, I’ll swallow it whole.
Milo Gallagher graduated from Warren Wilson College earlier this year. Some of their favorite things include swimming, British quiz shows, and when dogs look like they're smiling. Milo produces and co-hosts the podcast Mother Doofus with Emmanuelle Post.
