I am taking a prose poetry class!
Prose Poetry? What a paradox, you say, please tell us more!
Well, I won't, because you can just google it.
But here is a poem I wrote that I really enjoy. Maybe you will too.
I plunge my hand inside the blank square of my calendar and watch as it is swallowed by white space, bits of notes clinging to my fingernails: Dad’s birthday, dentist appointment, orchestra concert. I push my whole arm in and with huge effort my torso, like pressing through mud. My feet remain on my linoleum kitchen floor, as cold as the cold feet that walk away from weddings and babies. No one grabs my ankles. My body halfway through this window, my eyes closed tight, I clench the sides of the calendar page (I am reminded of the coarse feeling of the hospital blankets they wrap infants in) and heave until I am all the way through. Then my face is reflecting the shining white, a field of fluted glass, like stalks of wheat, that flow to the horizon and softly chink together in the breeze. I am alone in this empty month, with only three fragments stuck to my fingertips, and there is nothing else.