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Beckett's Left EyeBy Ricky Ray QuailBellMagazine.com  An iris, I rise. I want roots like a banyan, half-earth, half-air, all the water a word can sip. Leaf toxins poisonous to any would-land bird. Humming and I get along just fine. They come, hover enough to say hello, then keep it moving. An empty house these vowel-heavy boughs and hollows. Olives and owls. Oohs and aahs. Icks,
acks and itches. A flag, allergic to the sun, that glows when given a glove of shade, having been sewn in the pitchless dark. A flag bearer, she didn't need sight, knew the terrain by feel. Told can’t, she put sky in the back, blood in the stripes, and strung it together with stars. Can’t, canto, can too, not naught knot. Always the same with you boys, the tone of mock surprise. Skull on a fencepost. A disembodied whistle in the wind, looking for an ear to call on, a head to call one’s own. Time to give thought a good talking to, and if everything works out, if it undresses well and can fire up a snappy rack of lamb, I'll tie a porch to its dog and call it home. CommentsComments are closed.
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