The Outside: A Prose Poem
Saturday Poetry Prompt: feeling backwards
Like a backwards damnatio memoriae — the scratch and scars are removed to reveal a name — a foresight
into landscapes — the order of the trees — certain calls of the crows — where the coyotes take and bury
all the rodents they find on the side of the highway — surely flesh can’t be the whole of an existence — wild and short — or long like the horizon — sculpted into a flow — making you think that the linear
way of reaching will be enough — but outside are the curves — the maps are nailed in pieces
to the trunks of various ashes— I see but I haven’t been able to patch together the lines this way — still trapped beside a lazy creek —
drained this summer by everything — even the nights — pushed into another self-reflection mirrored anecdotes pointing out passion — like a stranger — like a friend gone missing for a time
— for too long — then stretched beyond the firing wires — distance retractable — special measurements for the moving of alcohol— not in the outside —
and so it halts — halfway — stepping into the sunrise and the concerted definitions of lying belly down
