three poems

by Bob McAfee

Body

            “When I hit her on the head, it was good”

            Herbert White by Frank Bidart

I. 

There is a body in my car trunk safely secured,

smothered in Seven Eleven bags of ice,

the smell of decomposition mostly obscured

for about two weeks until it finally occurred

to me to use my horizontal freezer; it will suffice

as a vehicle of containment, the body transferred,

the corpse to the bottom, soon to be inured

among the frozen peas and carrots, packages of fried rice,

evidence of anything suspicious quickly blurred.

In event of thunderstorms, I need to be reassured – 

so I buy a gas-powered generator, this device

will allow most of my apprehensions to be endured.

Later I decide the body needs to be interred

in my nearby Georgia red-clay paradise,

so with my trepidations fiercely stirred,

I proceed from the ridiculous to the absurd:

at the risk of discovery I roll the dice – 

there is a body in my car trunk safely secured,

the smell of decomposition mostly obscured.

II. 

I have a decomposing body in a bag

wrestling with the spare tire

in the trunk of my car all scrawn and scrag,

wrapped in twine and chicken wire.

Resting with the spare tire,

Seven Eleven ice dampening the smell,

trapped in twine and chicken wire,

the corpse, of course, an empty pastry shell.

Sickened by the escalating smells,

I transfer the body to my horizontal freezer

beneath the vegetables and pastry shells.

I breathe a sigh of relief – and hope nobody ever sees her.

One night, odor emanating from the freezer

tells me not to press my luck.

My pulse pounds – am I having a seizure?

I call my brother to bring a blanket and his pick-up truck.

Hoping to change my luck,

we carry the body to a field outside of town.

Removing his shovel from the bed of the truck,

we take turns digging until she’s safely in the ground.

Driving back to town

as moonlight squints to meet the sun,

I realize not all my troubles are safely in the ground:

someone else knows what I have done. 

By the time I finally see the morning sun

I have a decomposing body in a bag.

Now no one who knows what I have done,

in the trunk of my car all scrawn and scrag.

Behind the Stadium 

I.

She’s smoking skunkweed in a veined copper tube,

darling Angela, suck it in, now you can blow,

cool dude on a white horse, stopped and strip searched,

game of the season, played coffee-drip slow.

Making love in the brown grass, sotted and smirched,

dancing under the grandstand, nude indigo,

cheerleader does handstands, puffs on a dragon,

clothes in the wagon, pom-poms white as snow.

Thinking football is better than sex is, she cheers:

“Doctor Feelgood, he’s our man, if he conduit, no…”

Mister D, all astraddle, wheezing falsetto,

jerks juju so high, he goes ultimately low,

waits with car door ajar; he’ll be tall in the saddle,

taking Angela home for a dinner and show.

II.

Smoking skunkweed again from a veined copper tube,

darling Angela, suck it in, now you can blow.

Riding his white horse, the quarterback dude

plays the game of the season, as he drops back to throw.

Making love in the brown grass, besot and besmirch,

under the grandstand, dancing mood indigo,

Cheerleader, do handstands till you’re left in the lurch

with your megaphone wilting, your poms black as snow.

Thinking football is better than sex is, you cheer:

“he’s our man, he’s our man, he can do it, I know.”

Old Man Death, in the parking lot, his head in a beer,

smirks juju so high, his bones rattle below,

waits with car door ajar; gives a quid for a pro,

takes dear Angela home for a dinner and show.

Wet

Rhonda has that look again.

Bill had best beware

on this night when the rain cannonades

the tin roof with coffin nails

and the fecund moon departs the sky,

reappears upon on a chain

dangling between her breasts.

Her moonstone is a watch

that says the time is now.

She has peeled the pomegranate,

eaten some seeds,

rubbed the peel against her loins,

all day

carried the mistletoe in her bra.

Grinning dragons and turtles

line the window sills.

The ceiling light is so low

the dead can see.

She is as high as she can go,

the mirror turned to the wall,

a bowl of uncooked rice

beneath the bed.

A knock at the door.

Bill enters wearing his bull shirt,

his boxer shorts and

a smile as big as Texas.

This is all that he will need.

Photo of Bob McAfee

BIO: Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston. He has written nine books of poetry, mostly on Love, Aging, and the Natural World. For the last several years he has hosted a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. Since 2019, he has had 164 poems selected by 68 different publications including two poems published in "Blood + Honey." Two poems nominated for Best of the Net. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poetry.