KNIFE
By R. Nikolas Macioci
The point of my father's knife thunked into
the arm of the rocker in which my mother
held me, exposing tiny tendrils of wood
less than an inch from my infant head.
My mother's eyes had tried to freeze
the knife's motion, reverse it to the hand
from which it had flown.
The first time I heard the story
I went immediately to the rocking chair
to find the scar, the steel
claw mark of what could have killed me. I
scrutinized the wood, ran a hand over
the arm. I asked my mother
if she was sure it had ever happened.
She too ran her hand over the worn pine,
discovering nothing but the blood-
sticky residue of furniture polish.
She seemed amazed that something so cruel
could have vanished so completely.
Eventually the rocker disappeared,
but not the habit of feeling chair arms
for the knife cut, for the sudden change
in grain from smooth surface to raw edge,
the smallest rip in the wood
a sliver of surviving proof.
YOUNG LOVE IN THE 1950'S
By R. Nikolas Macioci
Girls back then wore make-believe breasts hiked up
like radio antennae. We boys nudged each other
near high school lockers, watched deep cleavage totter
and a hand sneak a falsie back into position
with implicit grace. We talked conquest
all night across bunkbeds, hormones bulging
in adolescent limbo. On weekends
we scooped Chevys, rolled T-shirt sleeves, leaned
against Pepsi machines, our lips pouting "year,"
our teasing smiles trying for James Dean coolness.
Beneath unsullied stars, we pre-planned kisses,
fearing we would die without ever having touched
beneath poodle skirts. Summer nights,
we strung 45's on handlebars and rode
bicycles under brief white moons.
In knotty-pine rec rooms we slid slow
dances smooth as virgin silk, held girls
with a sweaty hand resting lightly on a bra
strap that teased through the back of a sweater.
Not that summer, but eventually,
one at a time we solved the mystery,
and, without smugness, came back to each other,
silent about finally drawing crinolines aside
on evenings grown older.