Paul Bergstraesser

Ron Taco

 

You’d think he’d be vaguely something

but Ron Taco wasn’t vaguely anything.

 

He was just Ron Taco, everything anatomically

correct including our neighborhood.

 

The outtakes: a carport attached to his house,

a Corvette Stingray, bellbottoms that today

 

people write songs about and an above-ground

pool where the rule was jean shorts, no tops.

 

You’d think Ron Taco was only a summer creature

and you’d be right. Rumors of rabbits dangling

 

by their feet for backyard archery, 100 steps

removed from the lightning bugs pressed to our

 

earlobes as nighttime jewelry. But everything is

rumor, from the brothers who’d kiss just about

 

anything to Ron Taco as an Olympian, dying in a

shootout with police, mail ordering a bride to

 

poems as more than placeholders, as more than

markers for memory which writhes and writhes,

 

spinning and twitching at the end of a rope.

Paul Bergstrasser teaches creative writing and literature at University of Wyoming. He was awarded an NEA Literature Fellowship in 2012. In addition, his fiction has been published in Another Chicago Magazine, The Barcelona Review, Other Voices, The Portland Review, Stone's Throw, and Thin Air. His nonfiction has been published in Sojourn.

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