NONFICTION & PROSE POETRY
Sorrow and that young woman discuss the future in silence over tall glasses of ice water. A damp towel, cold around her neck. The day is weighty and moist and hot, and she knits, with some determination, an enormous sweater that falls from her lap in heavy earth-brown folds.
Knit. Knit. Knit.
Beads of sweat pearl her upper lip. She rips back an infinite, unsatisfactory row. She rips back another because it felt so good to rip back the first. She picks each loop back up on the long, long needle with meticulous care. One stitch untwisted, then another. This takes approximately a century.
A GLINT IN PARCHMENT
It was the money plant that pointed the way. The brown stems were brittle and ready to snap at the touch and the pods thinned like a layer of flaking, tanned skin. But you grabbed a branch, broke the stalk, shook it, the brown flat seeds floating into your open palm. You peeled the sheath of another small parchment oval away and there was a slight glimmer, a hint of muted pearl like a single streak of white light on a gray sea.
SCURRY SCARAB BEETLE POETS
JENI DE LA O
A scarab beetle poet scurrying over carcass and mostly eaten apples. Without a formal education, what more can be expected? No MFA, no mentorship. No shinny-fresh or up-and-coming. Yes, I am clawing and scratching and digging through the trash bins of people who have the sort of life I would have wanted for myself. Maybe I’ll luck out and some sleepy editor will accidentally click accept; can I covfefe my way into the kind of life that leads to bookstores?