A wing in the wheat, no blood.
The tank's nearly empty
and no one's pruning the family tree.
This isn't a good idea. We ought to worm.
I know a field where love was made,
it came out screaming,
hungry as heaven for the eyes of hell,
hell for the mythical liquor tit.
The mess milk's made.
To put a dream in the oven
and listen to it sing.
Stone: the sky that fell so hard.
Quartz: the record of where
the angels fought back.
Belief: mending a broken wing.
In the ledger of why we stuck together,
there was no mention of diamonds.
I taste fate every time I swallow.
I spit at taunting death and hear
a star in my head say thank you.
Ricky Ray was born in Florida and educated at Columbia University. He is the founding editor of the journal Rascal, and his recent work can be found in The American Scholar, Matador Review, Amaryllis, Concis and One. His awards include the Fortnight Poetry Prize, the Ron McFarland Poetry Prize and Katexic's Cormac McCarthy Prize. He lives in Manhattan with his wife, three cats and a Labradetter; their bed, like any good home of the heart, is frequently overcrowded. See rascaljournal.com and rickyray.co for more.
