Prose Poems: A Foray

#1 Seasons

Laughably, I find that April is not cruel, except to my roof. No, February is the one does the nasty: thin limbo between white and green, death and life. My damned birthmonth.

#2 To My Sweet

We lived as though in a milder version of Sophie’s Choice.

#3 Thanksgiving

The family, in the old extended sense, has included the not atypical gamut from quasi-criminal to near aristocrat. The domestic register is at once sparse and dense. In foreign lands, records run much more clear. By this is meant a concretely documented range of colonizers, traders, soldiers, grave-robbers, and tenured historians.

#4 Le Chat

The cat must have escaped, from either human or animal violence. Assumed it was just hungry; not seeking to rest in peace.

#5 Democracy

Some say, it’s giving everyone a voice. Others, to everyone a gun. Most accept, noting rational exceptions, giving all a vote.