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| DONALD RAWLEY | ||
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| Jonathan's
End The AIDS first appeared like a black dog's bite and would go away, kicked and yelping. Then there was the throat full of beetles and legs like broken chairs found on the ocean's edge. Jonathan knew to rent this beach house. He'd die in Malibu, by God. It's only one month's rent, he told his mother in Reno. Besides, there'll be cash left over for you. The sea will make him clean, take away the vomit, the blood, the slow strings of high tide moving his eyes like puppets. He walks with a fever into the Pacific each day now, bobbin, buoy, bottle in the waves. On the shore he puts his ear to the white silt, he hears the heartbeat of the earth. And spells out his name, Jonathan, in the sand.
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| Malibu Stories © 1991, Black Tie Press. All rights reserved. | ||
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Special Tribute Poetry American BeautyWhite Water Blind Stitch Steaming Chateau Marmont Los Angeles Three AM Mulholland Drive Helen in Waiting
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