<i><b>Wicked Alice Poetry Journal
wicked alice| summer 2007

Ray Succre
Appending Fay


Afternoon Fay, from her bedroom ripe, streaked in her pneumonia*1,

stands near a sink and severs her pills width, takes by water*2

as spring onion steams from the kitchen pot*3,

and the catcalling young men on television wave*4.

“Geronimo.” she says, approaching the pot, then

“Geriatric.  Jerry-rigged.  Geranium*5.” which

leads her mind at last to coughing out:

“I have gerontoxicosis.”*6


Her lungs ache, thickly present in sense

like dark bruises*7.


She bends the scallions back and nudges the stalks*8,

woman under simmering water, inhaling slow, above.



*1LeFavre, doctor stated so mild, his energy invisible

*2From tap through charcoal, plastic, metal;  filtered

*3Passages clear from most agitation, onion is

   a sensual respiratory altercation

*4They exist flatly to appease the notion one can see them

*5Leap off or in; old; patched weakly; flower

*6Angeltoxicosis has admitted its fault is found in

   calendars, turns

*7Perches of caught later-night vomit have trickled into

   airways, infecting, sputtering while sleep is attempted

*8Sailing into onion, tongue a rudder, anchor nasal high


Ray Succre has been writing for twelve years and has begun publishing his poetry while trying to broaden himself as a poet and parent.  He is now beginning to send his work out at a more social level.  He currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife, Maisy, and baby boy, Painter.  He has been published in Aesthetica, Art Times, and The Book of Hopes and Dreams, as well as in many others both in the U.S. and abroad.