The half-suns laid in brick —

tan curves on a red face —

close in on each other

but never touch.


They will not come together

to brighten the sky.

They will not kiss your face

with rays of light.


They will not bring rainbows

after April showers.

They will not melt snow

covering the sidewalks.


They will not help plants,

they will not light the way,

they won’t wish you good morning

when you rise from bed.


They will burn no skin,

they will blind no eyes,

but will not delight

at your gazing all day.


They will protect you from

rain, heat, wind, and snow.

They will let you meet your friends,

they will take your plants, too.


All you need to do is hide

behind the half-suns laid in brick,

destined to remain apart

‘cause only nature yields the stars.







You came home,

itching for blood,

lusting for fire.


For thirty-one years,

you fooled your neighbors,

fooled yourself.


You thought you left

the monster under

your child’s bed.


All those times

he cried, “Daddy,

there’s a monster,”


he never knew the monster

slept inside you, arms

wrapped around mother.


You stored your anger

in a bucket, added

a little each time


until one last fight

and the bile spilt,

awakening the beast.


The glint of a blade

streaked through the house,

the hollering pushed her


behind the bathroom door,

her hands shaking, fingers

fumbling over the phone.


You marched away,

gasoline in one hand,

match in the other,


taunting your victim

with wisps of smoke

curling into her shelter.


Bleating sirens, crackling flames,


impromptu gathering on the lawn.


For thirty-one years,

you fooled them,

now the monster


has been trapped,

a caged lump

in the shadows of a cell.





Christopher Iacono lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts. You can learn more about him at cuckoobirds.org

Featured photography by badpoem