~Westfield, NJ, May 18, 2005
There are sun baked turds at the old man's feet.
Don't worry, they'll be eaten by the ducks, he says.
I watch his wife shake, press fingers
against her eyebrows. She was bowling
the morning the bodies were found.
That crazy bastard, he blew all their goddamn heads off.
The wife still had toast in her mouth, and he left
his mother in the attic. She shakes her head, like she is
saying no, unfolds the cuffs of her shorts.
They smell like hostess soaps shaped like shells, teddy bears.
She's shaking like she wants to stop, says John Jr. got it
the worst. He put up a fight, that little boy. But my, oh my,
he didn't even have a
A young girl gets out of bed
bottles of prescription
drugs surround her. She says,
there is construction all around,
and none of these workmen speak English.
All I know, is the house where he killed them was
behind the pool. Her legs look strong. I think
the drugs are for some injury.
I leave her behind the swinging door in the bedroom
that looks like a dining room, low windows, heavy drapes,
she is just off the kitchen.
I take pictures of the grass
behind the pool. A fence separates a neighbor
from where there is nothing
The carpenter says he was too active
to worry about what happened on Hillside Dr.
in 1972. He says, these people had money, you know,
but not heart like yours. I don't
know him. His teeth are yellow, crooked,
and long. His hands are hard with the cement
he pours. I ask about the original foundation,
but he says it is gone.
I just can't forget a father dragged his family outside,
over there, near them hydrangea bushes, he points.
But I know the father laid them down
in the dining room on sleeping bags.
He posed mother with son, sister