Poetry/Prose Exchange - # 3

To be honest, no other exchanges have arrived.  And so, I'm continuing this series on my own.  Not all by my lonesome, but in the company of words.

The poetry of Susanna J. Mishler is on my mind today.

 

 

"What Fits Neatly in a Hand"

 

A pebble. An earring. A stack

of dimes. A little water,

and the reflection of something small

or distant in the sky.

A toy fighter plane.

Not a live goldfish, but a dead one.

Not the other hand--

not completely.

A matchbook, a moth. A cupboard hinge.

A tooth. Pieces

of broken things, wristwatch gears,

plate shards, ashes. The curve

of an infant's head.

Crumbled plaster. A chipped button

sewn to a shirt scrap.

An ice cube--briefly.

Not the curled edges of burning paper.

Not an aspen, but a lemon seed.

The opposable thumb. Two aspirin.

Some sand--barely.

 

from Termination Dust -  by Susanna J. Mishler 

 - Red Hen Press, 2014

Poetry/Prose Exchange - # 2

what she was wearing  - by Denver Butson

what she was wearing

this is my suicide dress

she told him

I only wear it on days

when I'm afraid

I might kill myself

if I don't wear it

you've been wearing it

every day since we met

he said

and these are my arson gloves

so you don't set fire to something?

he asked

exactly

and this is my terrorism lipstick

my assault and battery eyeliner

my armed robbery boots

I'd like to undress you

he said

but would that make me an accomplice?

and today

she said

I'm wearing

my infidelity underwear

so don't get any ideas

and she put on her

nervous breakdown hat

and walked out the door

 

"what she was wearing," by Denver Butson, from illegible address. © Luquer Street Press.

Poetry/Prose Exchange - # 1

A friend of mine invited me to join in on a poetry/literature exchange, in which we send an uplifting, inspirational line of poetry or prose to an email address included in the original message.  Then I choose twenty friends to share this idea further, who then do the same, and so on.

This is the line I chose to send.  At first, it may not seem uplifting, but to me, it makes sense.  I am, after all, a child of dark humor, of finding the brightest light from the darkest places.  

"Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice." 

- Gabriel García Márquez - One Hundred Years of Solitude