1. A fourteen-year-old seducing
who I’ll be on a bed at age six
in the spring of ′84, our old house,
the guest a friend of my brother,
flannel rolling across his skinny body,
bowl cut eliding his face, Star Wars
fanatics during their eighth grade alliance.
Tagalong in apogee, I’m open to roles,
reenactments for the window to see.
Open to impersonating a princess,
action figures switched one life after
another, thumb running down and up
a vinyl cape, Empire converging on
twin sheets. It’s a conference day:
early dismissal, my father at work
inspecting postal collection boxes.
This was the year he found a pipe
bomb at the corner of Portage
and Alcott, a heroin needle
in outgoing. Mother – the two-for-
one scheduling of sons, art teacher
impressed with the older’s pointillist
sketching of a shoe, caretaking of me.
Leia I’ll be in this carbon-freezing
scene lensed through a chest kiss,
flannel where the horizon cued,
teenager who became a paralegal
coaxing a suckle over sinewless,
ransoming the breath that ages
the mouth, metamorphosis Riccio Page 1
smoldering the royalty
out of me.
2. Yesterday: browsing for costumes I glide through doors indifferent to making do. Contamination fears and I’m not touching that jedi. That one. That one either. Culpability: The family that blames together blurs together. Agoraphobia: Schadenfreude on a full stomach. worries, All other: Gird a tourniquet for your Loch Ness. The penalty for synthesis rendered moot. Autobiographical
Recall: His name was Mike.
He smelled like the cape at BoRics.
Jon Riccio studied viola performance at Oberlin College and the Cleveland Institute of Music. An MFA candidate at the University of Arizona, current and forthcoming poems appear in Really System, Split Rock Review, Futures Trading, Cleaver and Hawai’i Review, among others. A 2014 Pushcart nominee, he resides in Tucson.