All Ray did was toss a dead swift away and go back
to moving stones on his two acres in Brea, California.
When he was whacked by a hawk, it was a debt to the back
of the head. The hawk flew off, whomp whomp whomp.
A wind came from the cemetery like cold fingers
through his hair. His neighbor, Anas, asked, Cat better?
Due west, the grunion would run at 10 p.m.,
millions of dice rolled on the shores of Bolsa Chica State Beach.
When Ray, a chemist and pancake connoisseur,
tends to his land these days, he carries a rake.
He named the hawk Gino. The hawk is not Gino.
The hawk is not a hawk, even. The fish pouring into the sea
are not fish, the dice are auctioneers, the auctioneers
are crooked, like space, and time could be high on kush.
Come night, when the moon blues Coyote Hill
and all the causes and effects arrive in the sky in their jewels,
and silence, the very first language, eavesdrops on everyone,
a congress of blood in the floored bird campaigns,
and finally, as footnote, Ray is not Ray.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 2.
Brady Rhoades’s poems and short stories have appeared in The Antioch Review, Baltimore Review, Best New Poets 2008, Georgetown Review, Notre Dame Review, William & Mary Review, and other publications. His non-fiction has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Black EOE Journal, Orange County Register, San Gabriel Valley Tribune, and U.S. Veterans Magazine. He lives with his wife and dog in Orange County, California.
See all items about Brady Rhoades
