The American Prose Poem
by Joshua McKinney
The American prose poem sits naked in its highchair gazing dourly down at a placemat depicting mashed peas and fondue savoyarde. The American prose poem wants merlot in its sippy cup but gets only a piece of coffee. O the daily torture of le goûter! Mother has forgotten to dress again. She is taking nude selfies in front of the fridge. The American prose poem grows aroused, gets an erection. “What thoughts I have of you tonight,” it mumbles from behind its beard. “Who’s my little friend to the clouds?” Mother says. The American prose poem kicks its prosthetic legs and screams, but Mother takes no notice. The American prose poem wants to rectify the rhythm of her terrible busy fingers, but it is blinded by the intention to wishing, by the same splendor, by the same furniture. The American prose poem hurls its silver-plated spoon at the wall. “Eat your Edson,” Mother says. “You can’t go out to play until you finish your Edson.” “I’m sick of Edson every goddamn day!” cries A.P. Profligate and blond, it loves everybody. Its eyes have faded to a vague blue. It weeps. It tells a joke. It weeps again. It swears it is not dreaming.
Joshua McKinney’s most recent book of poetry is Small Sillion (Parlor Press, 2019). His work has appeared in such journals as Boulevard, Denver Quarterly, Kenyon Review, New American Writing, and many others. He is the recipient of The Dorothy Brunsman Poetry Prize, The Dickinson Prize, The Pavement Saw Chapbook Prize, and a Gertrude Stein Award for Innovative Writing. He is co-editor of the online ecopoetics zine, Clade Song.