Phantom Threads
When I was five, Dad would leave a bag of bar
chips at the foot of my bed at 4AM.
Even then I knew it was an offering, an amends
for imagined sins; that took years to understand.
I felt fragile, responsible, as if I was the one who
needed to apologize; for existing, for not finding
the right words as if a kid could have a vocabulary
or understanding of how to end a perpetual cycle
of poisonous sabotage, a legacy built before being
born; a foundation laid before the Ace High,
US Steel, before the endless trek across an aloof
ocean to an adopted land. It began before English
was a second language; anger self-doubt guilt shame,
all that contraband smuggled in from the Old Country;
generational threads used to weave a tapestry,
one side warmth and fire
the other a cold, frozen ache passed down, down
down, an unintended inheritance until I decided
to bury that tainted treasure, without a map,
making it impossible for my kids to find.
Every night I pretended to be asleep, devoured
the Lay’s in bed as soon as I woke up.
The berating he received from Mom tempered
by her smile, reserved solely for me,
became the spark for another explosive day;
one more stitch to be tied, knotted. Unraveled.
*
1995 Morgan Park High School All-Class Reunion Part II
I remember transistor radios, eight-tracks and unfiltered cigarettes,
women in bouffants, high heeled and lip-sticked doing housework;
casseroles and televisions with three channels because PBS didn’t
count after you outgrew Sesame Street.
All-Star Wrestling: Baron Von Raschke, Iron Sheik, Verne Gagne;
we went digging for treasure in the cellar, playing mom’s old 45’s
and 78’s; Heartbreak Hotel, Wake up Little Susie, Long Tall Sally.
I remember Topps Baseball Cards, the inedible-hard-as-rock-gum
we trashed instantly; touch and tackle football behind St Elizabeth’s,
Father Dulcina shouting out to the altar boys to not be late for mass.
Every grandparent or parent an immigrant: Serbia, Greece, Albania,
Yugoslavia; all the fathers/brothers/uncles worked at the Steel Mill,
third shift waiting at the door for the bars to open, to cash paychecks,
drink the regret from their lives. I remember shouts and breaking glass,
name calling and cursing, smell of whiskey, beer, impatience, yearning.
I remember the sting of flat-handed slaps, the stiff pummel of fists.
Too-quiet evenings exploding into 2 am war-zone mornings, cries muffled
by the clap clap of trains running. I remember unrequited crushes, undying
loyalty and fleeting hatred, shifting alliances, running gags, cruelty born
from boredom. Speed, weed, Thunderbird and Mad Dog 20/20, lukewarm
Windsor Cokes and cold snaps of shame. We were the unloved, unwanted
unclaimed strays; holding hands, awkward first kisses, and copping a feel.
Laying in empty fields, some stranger’s bed praying for the world to stop
churning. Knowing we could live forever. It was only a matter of time.
*
The Wonder Years
My father took me hiking once; an ill conceived
picnic/trek combo behind our five-room apartment.
The trail loosely marked, we weren’t dressed
properly; Dad in lightweight khakis, shiny shoes.
Me, Batman t-shirt, shorts, tennies with holes
in the sole; my sister sun-dressed, learning to walk.
I don’t think he was drunk but at five-years old it’s hard
to tell; he was home so it must have been a weekday.
Benders were storms that gathered on cartoon Saturdays
or dress-up for church Sundays;
that swimming-hole July day was made for adventure.
Trains ran at night behind the house, not quite drowning
out their yelling-blaming, me believing it was my fault.
I knew those boxcars were headed to far-flung lands,
China, London, Africa, Italy, New York City. An escape
hatch into geography; every exotic country within reach.
Years later, my sister swore she had memories of that day.
Tears, she said; didn’t know whose, but surely not his.
I’ll never forget. Dad all slope-shouldered, wet with sweat,
silence and his permanent nothingwronghere smile;
me all bramble-scratched-dirty, feeling the low spark
and rumble of a binge in his footsteps.
*
If we knew how it felt to be free we could hold back rivers
On the swingset at Stowe Elementary we planned
our getaway; teen bodies awkwardly squeezed on
the small planks. You tried to shock me by taking
out a cigarette, gave me a canary swallowing smile,
asked for a light. You laughed when I flipped my
Zippo, fired you up, then lit my own Camel straight.
You recognized me from fourth period Spanish II;
wanted to move to Spain, raise horses, never get
married. I said Bien Catalina! You chewed your lip
told me you preferred Cat; French inhaled like a pro.
Wasn’t until later I noticed the burns on your arm,
later still, your scarred thighs when you wore short
-shorts. I wondered what it’d be like to kiss you, feel
the drum of your fingers on my chest. You exhaled
a stream of smoke, said you liked my name, sounded
like a poem or a fairytale hero; took my hand, pointed
to the sky, Alejandro, es luna de cosecha. The next day
at school, I tried too hard to be cool, pretended to not
know you. You pretended to not care. After I went off
to college I heard you were fired from Far West Market.
Frankie caught you spiking the milk jugs with vodka;
you shouted at him over your shoulder, Can’t anyone take
a joke in this joke of a town? I wonder if you ever made
it out of that one-horse life with five bars, two churches,
the poker-faced disapproval from self-anointed saints.
From my kitchen window, I watch kids in the playground
across the street; listen for the pounding of hooves, wait
for a Harvest Moon to rise.
*
Alex Stolis lives in upstate New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra; he has had poems published in numerous journals. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Ekphrastic Review, Louisiana Literature Review, Burningwood Literary Journal, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press 2024, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres, 2024 by Bottlecap Press.