Anuel Rodriguez
Blue Parabolic
A flint-dark buzzard is hovering in the air like my
mind held in place by the wind. Hereford cows graze
in coastal cattle ranches; their brownish red bodies
and white heads make me think of chalky Minotaurs
peeled back like layers of a night-herded dream.
Caught in traffic just before Bixby Creek Bridge,
I watch a father and son get out of their white van,
both barefoot, so they can look out over the rocks
at the Pacific. I wonder if the blue the boy sees is
bluer than the blue his father sees. In some places,
the deep blue edges milky green when it meets the
shoreline. As the pair get back inside their van, I
notice that there’s something hanging from their
rearview mirror that looks like a paper bowl with
colorful streamers. Maybe it’s supposed to be a
UFO or maybe a jellyfish. A bee tries to hitch a ride
with them — I wonder if it can tell the difference
between the sky and a blue school bus parked along
the side of the highway. One day when the woods
and farmland burn and the sun reddens like blood coral,
this place will become a blue mosque at the wave-salted
tongue of paradise. And our lives will be the smoke on
the thread leading back through the throat of the species.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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