Summer afternoon and the paper
wasps druzzing near the porch.
Playing the red truck across sidewalk,
pushing it hauling stones, debris.
Listening to Santana from the lawn,
FM radio alarm, old, given to kids.
Smell of baking yards and mowers.
Grass imprints on knees and legs.
Hovering insects and bombination;
spinning hymenopters aflare past an ear.
The songs and then
the lightning in a wrist.
Of blackened marble eyes in the strepped,
twitting heads of birds,
of ants in cue-balls, corner-pocketing bits
of debris to store in a hill,
of feeling for engines, smoke blue
and the rotor striking lawn,
of ladyfingers in wasp nests, blastcaps
in down pillows, gasoline in floodlights,
of water pouring clean from the ribs
of a ghost in the Christ of Nazareth,
of pigs tined beneath ears and hind-leg hung
to cause the bacon, ham and else exist,
of hospital myths, and shrubbery ticks,
and woodboar teeth, and of a woman
leashed to another buried in dog hair,
come the details of my kind.
Of each material, they stray by minute.
Of their own volition, they are scale-sized.
One candle-armed woman shelling Ostrea
at the bench, and razor clams after sleepwalking
noon. The oysters turn as they lift,
then the jab, twist, snap, shuck,
from the bench.
She owns a schedule of tides in her own,
knows them low for high,
and all a cause of moon's place,
and even red tide from this place.
The two brown men come and spray
down the bench, and the thin, metal shucks
and bowls, soak the floor with a cloth hose lake.
They drain the flood by a draw at center dock,
for wait of its sitting dry by air,
and the woman sits in the puddle wood,
woman with gashed rough hands spent
long at the pry.
The aborted notion of authority,
the accurate wetness of violence—
in these introverted men
see frivolity spun into discord,
and an unchecked, edgeless amperage.
The blaring emotion and its stifled check,
short-spoken, tweaked, criminative.
They can find extroversion
tucked into pipes and tipped atop scales,
and hurry the bursting,
offer it registration and field.
It provokes them, moments latched
faster, becoming the most temporary
comprehension of their times.
Bio: Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and Coconut, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.
For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online: http://raysuccre.blogspot.com
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