The Boys in the Lineup

Ally Chua

Suppose one night
when you are ready for bed                             your phone rings 
                                                                    & it’s the
                                                                                  police
asking if you could
                              identify a boy                         from a lineup.

So you head to the station & see them in a row—
your father,                       your lover,
               your future son,                                   &
a ghost you can’t quite make out.

Maybe it’s in the shape of the boy
               you buried in your yard
                                                                    or the dead weight,
on the other side of the bed.

All of them have seen you nude.
                                             All of them
               have seen your best side
                              & your shadow over them at 4am,
               with a shovel                                        & a pack of ice.
All of them have flayed you
               from heart to marrow.
                                                                    & you figure out
                              who you’re supposed to save.

               See,
               all the boys you loved
                              have left                                 so it must mean
               you like broken things.

Like a loose slat of wood
               between your give
                                                                    & its yielding
                                            it’s been hollow
                                                                    all this time.

Of course it’s you to the rescue
                                            the crime scene clean up.

               & you wonder,
                              how long can you
               dust dirt off your hands
                              return to
a quiet room,                  a cold room,
               without the warmth of bodies or
                                            their festering stench.
               so.

Suppose one night
when you are ready for bed                          your phone rings
                                                                 & it’s the
                                                                               police.

They ask, can you—
               identify the body                 on the highway
in the hospice,                                     sign off on the time of death
               collect your heart,                            in disembodied
scraps,                returned to sender.

You must swallow
               hard knob in your throat                              & touch
mangled mess                                     you must identify the thing
               it used to be.
You must make the eulogy                & it will go
               all good things must end.                                  You know this, yet
endings are chapters you refuse to shut.
               Schrodinger’s boys
in a box,                              in the yard.
               If you try hard enough
maybe they’ll come back to life.
                                                                                   & if they didn’t,
               what could be worse,                                       what could be worse—

suppose one night
when you are ready for bed                              your phone rings
                                                                     & it’s the
                                                                                  police.

Your daddy         has broke                   your mother’s jaw
               your son the killer
in the driver’s seat                                 your lover
               a noose               tight around your neck.

                              Look at you—
while he dusts the dirt                                      off his hands
               you worry about the sleep he is not getting.
A monster must know a monster
                              so maybe you’ve hammered him
               into the shape you want.

See, you know this:
               a lineup is not meant                         to save.
                                             So, pick him out,
               the boy you could not fix.
        
               Because this lineup                                         is you,
cut into parts
                           on the other side of the glass.
The only one guilty
               the only one with the shovel
                           you are the ghost
                           & the last unknown in this lineup.

Suppose one night you just stayed by the phone
               & waited
                           & waited
                                     for the storm to happen.
                           For the killing blow.
& the boys in the lineup                                               they wait.

---

Ally Chua is a Singaporean poet. She works for a botanical attraction, and writes when she’s not replying to emails within seven working days. She is the 2019 Singapore Unbound Fellow for New York City, and a member of local writing collective /s@ber. Ally has been published in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Cordite Poetry Review, and Lammergeier Magazine. Twitter: @AllyChuaSG, Instagram: @decantre, website: www.ally-chua.com.

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