The Good Old Days

We’re sitting on a picnic bench at Fort Snelling,
midday, mid-week—place almost to ourselves.

Steve tells me he can’t believe his brother is 93,
hasn’t seen him in years.

He points across the river—remember the huge
nest that used to be there?

Blew down in the Halloween storm. Never rebuilt.
Our gear waits on the table. Shiny. Unused.   

He taught me to shoot the juvies as they learned
how to fish; missed shots, hesitant dives.

Back then, herds of deer roamed. Egrets flocked
to their rookery—rolls of film.

We pack up our cameras. Steve says when he was
thirteen his brother tried to kill him a couple times.

Apple Pies

Steve tells me how he made a couple new friends
in line at McDonald’s; middle-aged couple.

He buys them lunch, she says they’re recently
homeless; her husband, purse-lipped, nods.

Kids are grown, recent job loss. She’s out of rehab.
Husband’s working day labor, but times are tough.

Steve listens like a pro, laughs, says back in the day
he made friends with sheriff’s deputies and judges—

asks about their people. She chats about a dream
house in Florida, how they’re saving up.

All they need is a lucky break and they will be
back on their feet—God willing.

Steve says he likes her tats. She tells him the story
behind the heart wrapped in barbed wire on her arm.

Her history mapped in butterflies, stars—yellow
peonies and red lotus. 

He points to the faded ink between her thumb
and forefinger. RDD. My dad did that

when I was nine—Rape. Death. Drugs.
Steve buys them two apple pies for the road.

The Piercing

Steve was ten. Ames, Iowa 1956. Wanted to grow up
to be the Lone Ranger. No Tonto. Just Lone.

Or Buck Rogers blazing through space on the trail
of the Tigerman. His brother, Nate, five years older—

back then, boys like him walked the long way home
by themselves. One October morning, Nate

convinced Steve it was Dress Up Day at school—
he was a gypsy, needed a sidekick. Mother’s best

sarong draped over him like a sash. Hair reddened,
a gold hoop dangled from his ear. Mascara-eyed

he held a knitting needle in the grill’s fire—
a bowl of ice on the grass. Real gypsies pierce

their ears. Steve back-pedaled fast. My ass!
Three years later—never saw Nate again. 

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Alex Stolis has had poems published in numerous journals. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press 2024, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres, 2024 by Bottlecap Press. He lives in the Hudson Valley of New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra.