C. Aloysius Mariotti
raffish, a brute – and cunning his tongue and hold. with the ice cream, and the comics, and the
he would let us ride on his lap in that curtained penthouse, we the latchkeys. he would let us
pose for photos while saving the princess, or stabbing the goblin, and we giggled shirtless and
loose until twilight edged against the horizon and supper was only doors away.
AND IT’S TO BE OUR TREMENDOUS SECRET!
my mother used to say what a lonely man donald was. his ruffled hair was a picture of the mess
beneath it – the charred wiring, the distorted feelings that would gush onto we the latchkeys,
sucking in the affections of that bachelor who was too keen to make us the champions of epics
and pubescent rowdiness, or restlessness, or certain obliviousness.
a boy shouldn’t lose his virginity at ten years old while immured in devastating fear on rough
orange carpet, his innocence impeached and torn raw. not with the smell of pepperoni pizza
burning the walls, nor with the taste of gold on the mouth of his wolfish captor – the kind of
creature he would slay with his fellow latchkeys in arms, but never once could he slay alone.
and maybe none of them could, as secrets die with us in the oblong rot lost beneath
gravestones, and memories.
C. Aloysius Mariotti was born in Pennsylvania and raised in Arizona. He studied poetry at the University of Arizona in Tucson, where he also listened to a lot of Rush, Radiohead, and PJ Harvey. He currently resides in Greenfield, MA with his wife Kristen and crazy Westie Bella Francine.