Westwind

How to Hunt Black Swans

AJ Urquidi

When Bryant came home from Hong

Kong he spoke with a saline growl

stuck halfway across his lower lip.

 

You couldn’t put your finger on that

experimental ripple of unsameness

but it was much like the time

 

Manuel trudged into the blacklight

foliage minus counselor or companions

and still found his way to your cabin.

 

It was much like the time you were

called out of class and told that Uncle

Jimmy fell and Grandpa could not

 

catch him.

It was much like the time you inhaled

rice krispies and changed

 

the channel but they all showed

two smoke-weak giants

you could never visit.

 

Bryant resides in whatever sun-

scraped condo he can sniff out

while the rest of us stay

 

focused on the craters.

Such a scurrying moment takes

with it all calm: the first

 

cracked head of the treehouse

girl you pushed, the initiation

of that hornet sting.

 

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