Boys In The Attic
The bigger boy sat on my chest,
my arms pinned to his knees,
lining my lips with red lipstick.
The mother hung
immaculate white sheets,
blinding in the harsh afternoon light,
desperately flapping in the wind
like the wings
of a trapped bird;
the father, shirtless,
caught in a webbed lawn chair,
the shade spraying coolness
like champagne,
smoked a victory cigar,
hanging on to a cold bottle of beer, the alcohol
anointing his son
after making the All-Star team.
This was August, 1973.
Aerosmith’s Dream On
soundproofed the walls.
The boy’s grin grew grotesque
as he leaned his phallus
closer to my face,
the opening like the barrel
of a gun,
and I remembered what I’d read
about being robbed:
don’t shout or scream,
take slow deep breaths,
tell yourself
everything will be okay.
After all, wasn’t the Candy Man dead?
Finally, give them what they want
so you can live,
and I did.
Whiteout
thirsty enough we lick each other’s watery eyes
we refuse to drink the Kool-Aid
the constant coughing from a soot-filled sky
bakeries and backyards burning
scorched earth policy
soldiers laughing in limousines throw out rolls of paper towels
cleanup this shithole country
we sleep on empty supermarket shelves
the power never came back on
the haves are already on The Moon and Mars
everyone has a gun
blood on cribs and crayons
rumors of torture chambers for children
when touched women curl up tight like millipedes
if it is summer why do we see our breath
there are not enough coats
we count the broken white lines while walking on a freeway
everyone is an immigrant
where is the border
rival bodies sway from bridges and trees
severed hands grow from the sound hole of a broken guitar
rainbows painted on the nails
we pretend they are flowers
it is dangerous to hide a fetus or book
to wear the wrong color
we are unsure of the time
a fake sun hangs from the neck of a cloud
someone said the world has stopped spinning
there are only good people on one side
The Executioner
In the slideshow of his mind he can view
every condemned face,
the spine-chilling psychopath, the handsome charmer,
and when passing kids at recess
he images each convict at that age, like those boys
hurrying toward a row of doors,
which one to choose,
you can do anything written on blackboards and in books.
What he does is pull a lever to deliver
an electrical current of 2,300 volts through the
body of another human.
An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.
He is not some bourreau dressed like a jester in a
blood-red coat and eccentric hat lifting
severed heads from a basket.
He is more like Zeus throwing a lightning bolt.
He secretly keeps a list of final words.
Get the ride started I’m ready to go is a favorite.
Some are unrepentant, will spit at him; others have
a shiny new Christ jitterbugging in the
honky-tonk of their hearts.
When the curtain opens to reveal the observation room,
the victim’s family sitting silent, staring,
still stunned, it’s hard not to hear
the murderer repeat the last thing a young girl said,
as if hoping they were
the magic words: I want to live.
He tries not to think about the next life,
if he will be judged, if he will see these men again,
forgiven then, shaking his hand, an acknowledgement
that he was only doing his job.
He doesn’t think of himself as being
superstitious—what goes around comes around—
although he never flips on a light switch
in a room where one of his children
is seated in a chair.
Andy Macera has received awards from Plainsongs, Mad Poets Review and Philadelphia Poets. His work has also appeared in Pearl, Paterson Literary Review, Philadelphia Stories and other journals.