The summer I was ten, Dad installed an attic fan.
It churned hot air endlessly, no hope to outwit

humidity that drenched the sheets and tossed our sleep.
At night, I’d lie in bed and fist the pillows tight

against my ears. I couldn’t stop the racket of the fan.
Fearing the brute might suck me in, then upchuck

my fingers one by one, maybe an ear or slice of skin,
I never went into the attic, unlike my brother,

who picked off street lamps with Dad’s shotgun
and nailed limp squirrels to the woodshed’s eaves.

Rickey climbed up the wobbly steps, then raced down,
sheet-white, and refused to tell me what he’d seen.

We begged Dad to buy an air conditioner, but he stood
firm. After he left for work, we tossed the monster

dust rags, wood scraps, a headless doll, plastic dishes.
It scarfed them up and carried on.

Years later, when Dad sold the house, he bragged,
That old fan works like a charm.


From Midwestern Memories (Aldrich Press, 2013).
Used here with permission.