Cradlefish

by Ray Succre

Now a small cradlefish—
his brain rocking in the skull,
adeptly learning his earliest youth,
this soft havoc of ribbons and spit
is the baby turned one side to the other,
my son in his bassinet.

He wakes and sleeps, feeds, examines.
Torpor.
He chokes, is set aside while drawn close,
a flowering stripe of green descended
from a casement that any subtle sway
is yet to enfocus.

When (and how untoward a heaven
I’ll be shot) I am perished,
my genuflections ultimate,
near these stale wheat limbs
and with his own blood fast
riding out my dustwake,
he will lay on his life and build
still more speed, a kindness or cruelty,
subtracted from the discovery
of irregular deaths, all falling parents,
like collapsing beams, these supple demises
to our line, our skin, eyes,
our cradlefish rocking in skulls,
and he will become the full fruition of them,
from the pit to the stem, then the tree
to the ground; time is already here,
unweaving his threads even now,
while he has the smallest momentum.

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay Publishing) was recently released in print and is available most places. He tries hard. Visit him at blogspot for more information about his work.

Cuttlefish photo, above, by Rachel.