Ugh, look how he rips William’s arm off and swings it around his head, getting blood all over like that. Such an obvious comment on the performance of it all. How he walks with stiff legs and arms and rips up a little corner of a straw hut moaning Arrrrrr, over-pronouncing the ‘A’ and stretching the ‘r’. I mean, I sympathize. It’s hard to rampage through a town that has been rampaged through so often before. I mean, wouldn’t it be nice to be terrorized without having to consider the history of terror for once. We were having espresso at Claire de Lune’s and he said, “I literally have a tongue sewn into my cheek.” Sewn in or not, I’m tired of it. It used to be fun when we chased him down to the water with the torches and all, yelling, “Kill the abomination to God,” and then we would force him into the river and try to drown him. But I guess we aren’t in our twenties anymore. Now it just feels like a reenactment, more comment on act than actual act. But, you know, part of me thinks he really is a little afraid of fire. When I singe him with my torch, I sometimes see a flash of genuine anger, of real deep hurt in those black eyes. Well, one thing is for sure, he’ll never get a girlfriend this way.
Frank Montesonti is the author of two full-length collections of poetry, Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, winner of the 2011 Barrow Street Book Prize chosen by D. A. Powell, and the book of erasure, Hope Tree (How To Prune Fruit Trees) by Black Lawrence Press. He is also author of the chapbook A Civic Pageant, also from Black Lawrence Press. His poems have appeared in journals such as Tin House, Alaska Quarterly Review, Black Warrior Review, Poet Lore, and Poems and Plays, among many others. A longtime resident of Indiana, he now lives in Los Angeles and is the lead faculty of the MFA program at National University.