My father’s wraparound sunglasses
give back the mountains convex and fiery
blue as if the gorge pricked space

to vanish on his nose. He waves. July clouds drag
a laundry of shadows, and the frisbee smacks
when it hits his hand. He whips the disc lithe as lathe

turned copper combusting in the sun. I feel it.
The mornings he ordered practice, the elbows
of friends he moved awkwardly into place
saying it’s like taking flight yourself

like all that paid off and I’m making of plastic
china, stillest air stillest cabinets planed
smooth and cut to height for the hand.

I’m going long he says and I lead him off
with a fluffy lob he pops with the tip
of his finger and sends back with speed. Farther
he says from behind the fence

and I drive one direct and hard as I can.
He hooks it around his thumb and flings
it across the clouds. Farther

I wind up, gallop once and hurl the frisbee
but from the next ridge he’s already waving.
And I can no longer tell what that means. 

Wyatt McMurry is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Alabama, where he has served as an editorial assistant for Black Warrior Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Moon City Review, Noble / Gas Qtrly, and elsewhere

photo by Keith Wiley

photo by Keith Wiley