GILLIGAN’S ISLAND RERUNS FOR LATCHKEY KIDS

More mother than mother, more
sitter than sitter. 
On screen, we explored 

the well-lit jungle, the sand
on the lagoon’s beach
where the hands 

of civilization would 
sometimes reach, a crate
of seeds, food—

until the crew learned they were 
radioactive.
Their lives burned

and blurred into mine. There was 
no poltergeist here. 
But there was 

union. Afternoon 
communion.

ARREST ON HALLOWEEN, 1978

We lived in the country then.
Ranch homes far apart,
distended

neighbors—you might get razor
blades in your candy
news anchors

preached all day long. They came for
Boo Radley, the ghoul,
but we swore

he dearly loved us,
our justice.

TORNADO WHEN I AM SEVEN

We live too far from town to
hear the sirens. But
Mother knows

when the sky turns meringue that
her children need har-
bor. We scat

outside in needling rain, pin
down inside the dank
cellar. Bins

of old fruit jars, Mom’s
childhood tomb. 

MIDDLE SCHOOL CHALKBOARD

Nothing can truly be erased. 
Your poor-form algebra, 
its antumbra, 

never wiped away, its eclipse 
left for all tweens to mock 
even past the shock 

of last period. And though you’ve 
shuttled home on the bus, 
the sting of force

remains—the deep vacuum of space
where you radiate,
gassed, inchoate,

inside your heart-held contrivance— 
you can’t be seen from a distance.

Poet’s Statement:

Research is a huge part of my poetics. With this poem [Gilligan’s Island…], I knew I wanted to get at the concept of the television set (yesterday’s phone, tablet, or PC) being the nurturing replacement for a parent. 

As a kid, I loved Gilligan’s Island, so I immediately went to that particular show, but I knew I also wanted some specifics to make the poem pop. With a quick internet search, I found images of the set location, where the production design team created the famous lagoon on the back lot of the CBS Studio Center. Then I read about the episode concerning radioactive seeds that wash ashore, and boom. I knew this was a perfect fit for a concept I could elucidate—a radioactive burn that could reach through the TV set to young viewers. This also allowed another reference Gen-Xers would know, the 1982 film Poltergeist. I felt lucky to get those last pair of lines, “union. Afternoon / communion,” which sum up (to me) the latch-key kid experience. 

Lastly, as I age, I have come to really embrace my fellow Gen-X friends and our shared experience—the days of TV sets with three or maybe four stations, if you were lucky. Afternoons and evenings, we peered at the corner of the TV screen which marked the number of days the American hostages were held in Iran. And there was the energy crisis. And the end of the Vietnam War. And civil rights’ activism and legislation. And the resilience of shared experience and community when time spent outdoors in neighborhoods was the heartfelt norm. 

Dave Malone (he/him) is a poet and screenwriter from the Missouri Ozarks. A three-time Pushcart nominee, he is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently Bypass (Aldrich Press, 2023). His work has been featured on NPR and appeared in Midwest Review, Fourteen Hills, and Red Rock Review. He recently finished production on a short film, Maud, loosely based on the Tennyson poem of the same name. Dave can be found online at davemalone.net and on TikTok @poetmalone.