Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son.  He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, a
nd Rock Salt Plum, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  He tries hard.

 





 

Wheaties


It was “Monkey perform and make the world your friend.”
seeped into him from the treacle shot in a cereal bowl.
His mother would point at the athlete picture and trace 
the olympic rings.

If he kings his soft nape with an ugly face, with spiders 
and grits in the lurch, it is because the boy, like many, 
once mistook his mother’s dream to be a boy.

It was “Twist in the universe and keep quiet.” soldering 
the strings together, coaxing this little egg forward,
until the boy stood and could recite, wear fashions
as if whims, and state his name.

In time he solidified, a mother-puzzling man, 
and no athlete, his once good looks the wholesome skin
on which maternity had fed.

“World, I have made you my compatriot.” he states,
performing and ugly, looking from his twisted face
into the universe.

He traced his finger in five joined rings, and stared
into his mind at the strong, orange box.


Whole Wheat Bread


Until bread was there, “On the counter.” 
she pointed, segments of chicken bone finger, 
russet-spotted at a chamber for bread, spare ties, clip— 
she shattered over no bread, “There are condiments, 
and the turkey is cut yesterday fresh...  you hungry?”  
Even to the reincarnation of luxury, 
“We should have bread in the box.  On the counter.” 

Her compulsion was sooner so than a flight
or craving, though caused them strong.  “Nothing.  
No good without bread.” and near the bread-box, 
“We have no bread!  It’s a must-have.”  
She turns her face and then her head. 
“You go down to the McKays.”  
“Now?”  
“You hungry?” 
 “No.”  
“Well, you will be sometime.  Get up.  You go get us 
whole wheat bread.”

How he thought to bring her white baguette
and break it over her head, disorderly,
was in a blank face and nice eyes.

“Eggs while you’re there.  The brown jumbos.”




Smothering Damp


The carpet on the dirt is stiff.  
It mats as it must, this musty 
nest, here resting crusted on 
dead sowbugs and a screwdriver.

I slept on it once, in the shed 
yawning over me with damp 
haunted wood, in a bad month, 
my handaxes thrown and lost 
in rust and wood.

I slept on it starting Thursday
to wake under three poisonous
spiders, known black ones, 
vivid red hourglasses,
waking at four with three 
on my stomach, having
crept in under my shirt.

They had a home under 
the piece of carpet.

Tonight, I return to take the shed
into the blazes.
I’ll go with hands in gasoline.
I’ll go to burn up the carpet 
and shed that once tore me awake 
from my own, sick vacuum.

A bad month, my axis blown 
and crossed with mist on blood.