West of Olive

By Joseph Mattson

When he is born, do not name your son Randy.

The rim of the shield but not the shield, the failure
Wolf Randy is a name for the doomed. This devil’s
Deliberation you can trust: the child will be
Damned if so, bound to mire. They will come for him.
Name him Randall or Randolph if needs be
But you must never call him Randy, no address
Not to the extent that the name consumes him

Like it consumes two houses in fire.

I am not sure about the blood these days. Blood confuses,
Blood chiefly when olivaceous, the turned illumine off its
Hide—
I’ve read from the tree, licked along the sickle of
The adamantine crime, until, like early snow, toked soft
Down down by dirt down past the old county line:

If only this fine white smoke and dust were snow.

The apelike countrymen in their opaque iniquity
Screaming, but Randy long grown quiet smiling in anguish,
Sitting there, just sitting there with death, a hole in his skull,
So goes the spoil for the cool hush in veins.
Collect the cans and hope the truck starts. Winter, old man,
All winter for the stone, the cold boy, winter,

It grows down into young/old Randy, the impotent wolf,

O how to roll it away.

This poem was originally published in Slake No. 4. To read all of the stories from that issue, purchase the issue or subscribe at shop.slake.la.