A journal of narrative writing.
Breeze Knoll

 ~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 chance.  


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 left.  


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 with brother.