Rebecca Brandow Poetry

Child Slayers
(A poem about the muder of James Bulger. Based off of James Wright's "The Executed Murderer's Grave")

"All little boys are nice until they get older.”
— Robert Thompson, age 11

1
My name is Rebecca A. Brandow and I was born
3410 miles from The New Strand Shopping Centre,
In Liverpool, England, where a train
Running fast, trips over the carcass of James Bulger.
Left, just for a moment, by his mother
Outside a butcher’s shop, too trusting.
For while the butcher tenderizes his meat
With rutted hammer and blood-stain hands.
James’ abductors ravage his body with earth and metal.

2
I confess I did not worry for the child.
I was only five and my world fit into my dollhouse.
My little mind too busy to pick a favorite color. Blue. No, red.
Never thinking overseas to a living rag-doll‘s unheard cries.
I could have called him my brother, the ages would match,
But my baby brother was safe in his bed
Surrounded by colorful softness in animal forms.
So unlike James’ sharp, dark nightmare dripping red. No, blue.
I confess my parents do not remember this time,
When a little boy lay dead on the tracks,
Beaten, bloodied, cut in-half while Daddy set up toy trains
And Mommy hummed Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” under her breath.

3
Idiots, telling us children should be seen,
But what good did being seen do for James Bulger?
He had three captors that calm, early afternoon.
Robert, Jon and security camera number two
Shame the “Liverpool 38.” The witnesses
Who passed by the young trio but didn’t dare,
Dare to stop, dare to ask, dare to see bloodthirsty children,
A screaming baby, being punched and kicked. They all turned away
Instead saw a happy family, shopping, playing on escalators,
And in fountains with copper wishes and blue chlorine.
Close the curtains, keep driving, ignore the baby bleeding from his skull.
Then wish you could have done something when you are safe at home.

4
I pity myself, because a child is dead.
If an innocent baby can die a brutal death, what of me?
What of his captors who run free.
Never to see the other, but still not imprisoned,
Caged like the animals they were and will always be.
There is no rehabilitation for child slayers.
New names. New lives. They are in their prime.
Just turning twenty-five when their victim will never reach three.
Perhaps if I look past the crime and see that these boys
Men now. Have served their time and have behaved well,
But no. Eight years in the cage is not enough for slayers of children.

5
The little prince lost his crown, head buried under brick.
Railway bed, his death bed with white shale and littered flowers.
A single rose adorns his grave from his tormenter’s hand.
A hand that took the rocks upon the ground and assassinated the little prince.
But he was not a prince for they could never kill their own, or so they thought.
The prince became a blue troll an easy object to steal away.

6
“Let’s get a kid lost,” Lost in the rumble of a train’s rail.
Devious minds of children, slipping from truth to lie and back. Ask them why
They shrug, for they lost their reason along the bloodied tracks.

7
The victim and the slain, James Bulger
Crumbled under the rails and rubble of the train.
Beaten first by Robert Thompson, a boy too tough
Too willing to abuse his hapless follower.
Partnered with fellow tormenter Jon Venables
A liar and manipulator, so willing to do the same.
They took little James Bulger. It was a game.
Aimlessly they paraded their prize through the streets
Under bridges— drop the baby on his head
Throw in the water, no. Wait lets go on.
Punch the baby in the face watch him cry for his mother.
Passersby notice but don’t interfere. If they knew,
If they could imagine what two ten-year-olds could do.
Splattered him with blue paint, it trickled down his face.
They battered the boy with bricks and beamed him with iron.
Lay him across the tracks. It will be made an accident.
Too bad for the paint on Robert’s clothes
And blood staining Jon’s sneaker’s toes.
They denied, then lied, then pointed to the other.
They were tried, then convicted, then appealed
…then eight years later…
The child slayers were released for good behavior.

Poet: Rebecca Brandow