Ten prose poems
Summer
Time skirts a property's perimeters, where a woman considers years of herding and fencing. And fractures of shade and sunlight underneath silky oaks as a swing rocks over the creek; as a boy bends a sapling to the earth and tries to bury its end, piling rocks to secure it. He steps back and it shudders upright; she steps forward into the space he's made where light breaks through shattered foliage. He absconds, red-faced, embarrassed at her words; she moves half into shade, possessing herself against his intrusion. The thrill of light breaks over her arm. She sees streaks of sweat, holding teetering summer in her palm.
Triangles
Triangles chime in the hands of boys and girls. Tall windows scatter dusty light. At lunchtime the headmaster was beaten at table tennis by one of the boys. A line of sentences has been chalked on the board; a lesson on verbs and adverbs: Jane runs swiftly and Dan dawdles painfully in a yard. The teacher raps her pointer. 'Pay attention. The orchestra will concentrate.' But heat swarms. 'Look at the oval' — a shrilling student indicates the window's view of stilt-legged walkers. 'You must sit still,' the teacher shouts to the strewn, emptying room.
As You Like It
Mostly it's a problem of memory. There's a man twirling his cane in a familiar film, but you're convinced you've never seen the character before, and the words spoken by the heroine sound like paraphrases from As You Like It. Jacques rails, you know the forest must be Arden even as the countryside's referred to by another name, and the words 'A fool! A fool!' bounce in your mind. Though the make of car reminds you of Salinas Valley and a recalcitrant James Dean, you find yourself searching for Rosalind.
Wing
How that feeling, like a wing, held to her body — shifting in thought until the swan was most of what she was; her sense of propriety lifting into lighter edicts, so that air whispered of snow; so that arms murmured of the intimate dance. Her name rested lightly in her mouth; she spoke less often, reading of mythologies that animated the ancient world. Stepping lightly, she thought of childhood privations, heard a crowd murmur appreciation. Thinking of transformation, she was no-one she knew, at last without identity, all wing and a wild idea of flight.
Butter
You don't know the word for butter, so you spend