by R. Nikolas Macioci
I bought a clown suit, tried it on each day
like a prayer. Days in advance of Halloween,
I collected pieces for disguise: red and yellow,
big-toe shoes, painting gloves, long eyelashes,
and a huge, red, bulbous nose.
Couldn't wait to become someone else
even for one night. Excitement stirred in me
each time I climbed in and out of the cheesecloth
costume. Intimate secrets felt hidden, closer
to the bone: playing doctor with neighborhood boys,
beatings from Dad's drunken belt.
When I took off the suit, I felt suffocated. I slipped
it from arms, legs, turned back into a boy
who daily balanced fear and security
on either end of a seesaw.
The special night arrived with rainy streets.
I painted my face geisha-white, cheeks and mouth
ketchup red. I ambled from house to house,
coaxing doors open with greedy threats.
By 9:00 o'clock I filled with dread
of home, felt something gone because I had spent it.
I undressed in semi darkness, lay the other self back
in its box under the bed, flopped onto the mattress,
my head in shadows. Except for streetlight
through a single window, I wore dark like a hug
of hope, imagined what was left of me
would peel off by morning like a mask, and
someone else would rise out of warm sheets
with confidence that wouldn't crumble.
