I.
Monopoly in summer—
no need to finish or pack up like homework.
We raced by daily through the dining room,
en route, but always to return in the evening
to the square with its border of smaller cells,
litter of pastel bills and deeds piled anthill high.
II.
My brother and I played while my uncle and his lover
schemed in our basement, amassed boxes of electronics
from stores they robbed at night. Until the last time,
when my uncle shot a cop. My best friend told me
she’d heard the story on the news. I found
my uncle’s plaid shirt, bloody, in a shoebox
tucked beneath our Fairmont’s bench front seat.
III.
My Monopoly game was special, stored high above
Parcheesi and Sorry. Commemorative edition,
birthday gift from my grandparents. Double
the money, double the playing duration.
This bright container was minted in the 80s,
under Reagan, not Roosevelt. Stiff box corners,
my game piece a gold car, even the deeds,
their signal swash of color,
seemed better.
IV.
His letters to me from prison always opened
with Sweetie, asked me to ask my mother
for flip-flops and soap, closed
with sketches of turtles, reminiscent
of ceramic googly-eyed frogs he’d made me,
aligned atop my dresser. I slotted
his missives in the cubbies
of my grown-up, roll-top desk.
V.
The next summer, I could reach the shelf
for Monopoly. I pulled and it emerged
above my head, into my palms,
dropped to my bed, stared up
alien.
A cell block number
tattooed its cover,
cigarette ash floated
as I broke the lid’s suction.
My parents confessed
they’d loaned it to him
for the winter.
VI.
That stinking box, I never
returned to the shelf, never
wanted to play
the pawn again.
–
Jennifer H. Dracos-Tice has poems published in Witness, Psaltery & Lyre, Crab Orchard Review, San Pedro River Review, Stirring, Rogue Agent, Still: The Journal (2016 Judge’s Choice Award), and elsewhere. She is a long-time high school English teacher and lives outside Atlanta with her wife and kids.