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floridas electric chair
they sit him down like a tired old man
in that throne of leather and iron—
old sparky, they called it,
like it was some friendly dog.
they strap the wrists, ankles, chest,
tight enough to stop god himself—
one last insult to liberty.
the sponge is wet, because dry
means fire, and lawsuits.
the mask goes on—black as every sin,
but it’s the switch they love.
fingers twitch, a nod from a judge
who’s eaten too much for lunch.
then—crack.
a snap of light no eye can see.
his body lifts like a puppet on strings
jerks, clenches, convulses,
the legs slam the frame,
his tongue thick in his mouth.
smoke rises from scalp and thigh—
a scent like roast beef
and shame.
they wait.
they juice him again.
and again,
until he stops pretending to be alive,
smoke wafts from every orfice in her body.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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