That Boy (didn’t speak since his death)

Polly Richardson Munnelly

That rock through covered
screamed, reddening silted bed,
cradled 1969.
Rivers flowed winters gush.

The moment on Sundays in rooms
eyeing walls, glazed,
Sugar sugar through the static, he sat
turning vinyl,
suspicious minds echoing her hall ways.

Never meaning to
play repeat
  play repeat
8 track cartridge wearing Johnny’s boy sue-paused.
Apollo, plastic sat motionless
pointing east, man in moon.
Stared endless.

Mind whispers flared inner nova’s
not in tongues
nor devils claw
but lightening bugs illuminations,

And the hooves
And the hooves,

corralling his silence, hearing volumes,
catching it in each tail strand swished.
His exhalations
muzzle-nuzzled, sighs
and knowing.