He Do the Police In Different Voices
The light bulb swinging on its chain
gives the impression that we are standing
on the deck of a ship being tossed
by the waves; a weak pool of light
sliding back and forth over the floor
and walls of the cluttered attic while
we stand still, side by side, is making
my stomach flip over and my head feel
like it is rising off my shoulders like
a balloon. You don't seem to notice,
but it is your house after all; you have
probably been up in this attic dozens
of times. Today is my first time, and
I am here with you and your older
brother, who is peering into an
open tin box and seems to have
forgotten we are here. You and I
are not good friends, both of us
will admit it, but today at school
when you invited me to come over
and see something you called
very secret that your brother had, I
did not really think why you were asking me,
and said yes. Now I regret it; I don't like
being here, or your brother. I know he
stole from the 7-11 and smoked cigarettes
and so was inclined to dislike him, but now
in the rolling light of the attic, he seemed
positively demonic, hunched over the little
tin box and then suddenly barking at us
to hold the light steady. You flinched and
reached up, stopping the bulb's swinging,
and then stood so close to me I could smell
the sweat and deodorant under your arms.
Your brother fumbled with the box,
and without looking up, said in a guttural
voice that was not his own, that seemed
theatrical and calculated to to frighten
and so merely drew attention to itself,
that if we told anyone about this box
he would cut our pricks off and shove them
down our throats. Then he sat cross-legged
on the floor, and we followed suit,
and he pried the lid off the box - which
had once held Lipton tea - and let us lean
toward him and peer inside. At the time,
I did not know what it was: a small pellet
of dark wax, a dirty spoon, a length of rubber,
a rusty needle. Now watch, he said, cooing
as though coaxing an unwilling lover.
Years later, I would come to know this
ritual, and perfect it and adapt it
to my own need, but this was the first
time outside a doctor's office I had ever seen
a needle enter flesh, and never so hungrily,
never so much like a seabird diving
toward the surface to claim an unsuspecting
fish. I watched you help him, dab at his
forearm with the hem of your t-shirt,
pack the works back into the tin and
bury it back at the bottom of the trunk,
close it and then turn to watch him
lean backward, smiling deadly, his eyes
fluttering then coming into sharp focus
long enough to lock onto mine, and hear him
whisper clearly in another new voice,
I can see you, and I knew that he could,
only not in that moment but in another
yet to come.