by Sam Rasnake
To believe in everything is the way I would choose — a certainty for the next moment, and the next. Scenes of the day — houses along the road, dog in the yard, grackles on telephone wire, huddled there for the winter wars, the steady whirr of a car, two children walking to the river — play out their pitiful narratives: stories that are really no story at all. I want to make more out of them than can be made, want to give them substance, do this or that. This one lost, no way to come back home. This one afraid to sleep. Another wants to be a chef, mechanic, or singer. But the world is too fractured. None of this will happen, ever. The children walk on, the car finds its drive, and the dog, looking back just once as if to say something, disappears into the woods. The grackles stay on the wire.
— originally published in Metazen, and later
included in Inside a Broken Clock
All rights reserved.
A prose poem, in block form - with a bit of flash / non-fiction thrown in for good measure - meant to be read as a sonnet as well ... though the lines can't appear in their exact form here in FN.
In my journal, there's art with this piece. A full scene.
I’d been reading Raymond Carver for a week or so – At some point an image emerged and stayed with me. I wrote it down.
Published some time back in the outstanding and irreplaceable Metazen.
The piece was later included in Inside a Broken Clock.