PoetryAloud
Lucy Logsdon Reads Reads
My Last PoemI am the perfect poem; I am so
well-behaved. Look at how my lines line up like a gentle, even path through the forest. My tone's cultivated, gently assertive. My meaning well tended. I do not want to startle the reader. No sudden bloated opossum corpses lurking around the corner, no stumble into tangled thickets, chiggers, thorns. No strange rashes or itches, just a gentle stroll until...of course, there's an until, there always is. Sudden wind. A drop in temperature. Lightning strikes have been detected 2.1 miles from this poem. Take shelter. Lightning strikes now detected .1 mile from this poem. Severe weather has been pinpointed exactly where you are. Hail breaks through the lines' canopy. A wind sheer carries off your best thoughts. A mistake has been made. Fatal errors have occurred. There is too much muchness in these woods. Time to bushwhack your way out. Poison ivy, ticks, copperheads, everywhere. No matter. They are you. This is what you grew up with; this is what you know. A fellow hiker shouts over the gale: you appear to be struggling. Perhaps you should turn back. To what? The melancholy of my bed, the nursing of failing limbs, the encroaching immobility, a pillar of salt. Give me what you've got. In this poem, I will walk until I die, I will crawl on all fours until I expire. I will go out as I came in. Naked. Howling. Hole. |
Lucy Logsdon
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