I had thought that my undertaking of NaPoWriMo would take the shape of micro-poetry this year, but it’s only day two and I’m being proven wrong. The first ten words or so of this occurred to me about two or three weeks ago while driving and I ended up pulling over so I could jot them down for later review. This evening the rest of the poem presented itself.
Summer of Ninety-Eight
What we did
– all inelegant, four letter word imperfect, backroad rattled, windshield smeared –
What we did lingers
– wine, red wine, thick ichor of long-gone dusty gods, dripping, sluicing, tracking down pale skin, a different kind of blood, or is it blood, the offering of the sacrificial stain-
What we did lingers still
-springtime shadow cold, nerve-dead scar rising, terrain-marking remains of what came and came and came before, moon-driven, sun-driven, rhythm and syncopation and rush mad into the bricks-
What we did lingers still, unfinished.