Sex and Murder Magazine

By Maggie Garavaglia

My brother murdered a man.
We wasted an afternoon
over the telephone, and coffee,
as I listened , and he talked.

Being rubbed the wrong way
is merely execution of sound.
But rage is a strangling vulgar
amplified syllables left
like a broken neck in a noose.

He was in love with the noise
of it all. The loosening of blood,
and brain splats, splunks.
The chunks of bone crack,
an attack on the still calm
that fidgets in his head.

I kept thinking, "In poetry,
you show, never tell."
But poetry is rarely enraged.
Cage the BANG people!
No one wants to hear
the boom of it anyway.

So my brother killed a man,
and I understood,
as I picked up my sharp, sharp pen,
taking a stab at this non-sound
hacking through my head.

"Stop squirming . . .
It will only hurt for a moment."

“Hold still while I commit murder.
Maybe you can hear my words, scream for help?”