(To John Wayne Gacy)
Place me inside the envelope though I am naked
except for unintelligible scribbles. Seal me in
the secret spit thirty-three men already know
that you have defiled bodies; your body
is a knife, tearing with hands, throats
collapse. You want to clear the air,
the moldering crawlspace where rot breathes in,
where time calcifies under quicklime,
and faces stretch in frozen masks,
choking on dirty underwear, screams unheard.
Not out of the closet but below ground,
you could not stop yourself.
Stamp me with your signet, a burden
I am willing to bear only to be torn
open again. First, just write
I did it. List names, all of the names.
Before you burn me with wax,
I see your fingers crawling
back inside, unfolding me, smearing me
with fast food stains as you walk me
over to the motionless ones,
drop me down, and pour more chemicals
where we will all dissolve
as your balloon body
floats to the next boy.
Justin Holliday teaches English. His poetry has been featured in Glitterwolf, Sanitarium, Leaves of Ink, and elsewhere. His reviews has been featured in New Orleans Review, Lehigh Valley Vanguard, and The Adroit Journal.