They are bucked on her early, hold the stresses and the missions; promises are the things she is counted on to perform. Drive hard and do not take shit and respect elders and tough it out and bear things and defend any habits and the female life and a vast country and work hard and build things and see through things and go fight win and penetrate a man and marry and mother and keep what you marry and mother. She is to do all of this with a tract of professionalism.
I haze the bone of my skull for steaks and oranges. I square the mouth, format its race for an artery of repetition as of sleds over snow and ice, over memory. I collect men and women walking decade's here, one thousand irises in a head. I have to ask, almost pig-bitten in frost, what the skin thinks. I have to narrate, or else I hop moods and draw hoods, some devil of a high fire zone jumping roads. I have a northwest flannel thought, yet a machined, frozen juice-concentrate voice, and I have to have it out.
I ring my ring, my ring I ring, and I ring my eyes poured out like catsup over the thrush, rushed through all the outbound, migratory wheres on the world. I cough my cough, my cough I cough, and I cough again as a robin posts on the roof, a retirement home cell, and what a nursing, tainted robin he is, the thrush, rust-red breast, singing as I ring my drink, my cough I cough, as I drink my hopeful, bemused stares; it is the closest he'll get to being left a robin.
(truncate as needed): Ray Succre has been writing for twelve years and has begun publishing his poetry while trying to broaden himself as a poet and parent. He is now beginning to send his work out at a more social level. He currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife, Maisy, and baby boy, Painter. He has been published in Aesthetica, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Poetry Nottingham, as well as in many others both in the U.S. and abroad.
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