3 Prose Poems
by Jeffrey Hermann
We Are Always at the Mercy of the Beautiful World
In November we say goodbye to green salads. Goodbye to gin and fruit. The recycling assumes an autumnal hue. We say hello to turnips and dark red wine. Hello frozen lasagna. The Sun seems smaller but it’s not. Another way I fall for illusions and refuse to see the science. Like when I take long drives instead of coming home. Missing my exit on purpose I explore the part of town with all the hotels. The buildings seem vacant, one after the other. The parking lots sigh. One car, maybe two. I head home. Last night a deer died in a neighbor’s backyard. They jump the fence to graze on what’s left of the garden. There’s nothing to say. We all have jobs. We all complain about the wires overhead, the weakness of our signals. The trash that never got picked up. I bring the heavy cans back to the garage. Work without results is still work.
There’s No Escape From Love’s Demands
Sometimes I wish I worked with animals and sometimes I want everything to be quiet. I want a cleaner desk. I want to throw my desk out the window. I want to play professional hockey. I want to be interviewed between periods and say, offensively we’re really clicking but our defensive lapses are costing us. I want to return to the ice a hero. I forgot to review the Q2 economic outlook. Growth happens regardless. Same with decline. I imagine everyone’s opinion about me evaporating into the air as I hike up the side of a mountain. At the top of the mountain I feel both all alone and like I’m standing on the world’s biggest stage. Everyone wants a show. An actor friend told me they have the urge to take off all their clothes when they are standing before an audience. There’s something to this. I should speak in this moment but I haven’t prepared a word. I wish a bird would land on my finger right now. Something.
Like We’ve Been Here Before
Something about the light. A morning makes a sound, doesn’t it? No answer. It’s easy to forget waking up is holy. A crow somewhere. I used to be a boy with a fishing rod and a dog. I used to be a trail in the woods. I used to be the smell of pine needles. Tall grasses come and go every year. We walk to the river. One fish and then another. Brook trout lay eggs in fall, rainbow trout in spring. Our hands in the water. Ice cold today. What about tomorrow? No answer. Things come and go. We could be alive here in any form. Someone you love could be a tree for a hundred years. After that, would you rather become firewood or rot for beetles? No answer at first. You want to be a roofbeam.
Jeffrey Hermann's work has appeared in Okay Donkey, Electric Lit, Heavy Feather, Passages North, and other publications. His first full-length collection of prose poetry and flash fiction will be published by Unsolicited Press in 2027. Though less publicized, he finds his work as a father and husband to be rewarding beyond measure.
by Jeffrey Hermann
We Are Always at the Mercy of the Beautiful World
In November we say goodbye to green salads. Goodbye to gin and fruit. The recycling assumes an autumnal hue. We say hello to turnips and dark red wine. Hello frozen lasagna. The Sun seems smaller but it’s not. Another way I fall for illusions and refuse to see the science. Like when I take long drives instead of coming home. Missing my exit on purpose I explore the part of town with all the hotels. The buildings seem vacant, one after the other. The parking lots sigh. One car, maybe two. I head home. Last night a deer died in a neighbor’s backyard. They jump the fence to graze on what’s left of the garden. There’s nothing to say. We all have jobs. We all complain about the wires overhead, the weakness of our signals. The trash that never got picked up. I bring the heavy cans back to the garage. Work without results is still work.
There’s No Escape From Love’s Demands
Sometimes I wish I worked with animals and sometimes I want everything to be quiet. I want a cleaner desk. I want to throw my desk out the window. I want to play professional hockey. I want to be interviewed between periods and say, offensively we’re really clicking but our defensive lapses are costing us. I want to return to the ice a hero. I forgot to review the Q2 economic outlook. Growth happens regardless. Same with decline. I imagine everyone’s opinion about me evaporating into the air as I hike up the side of a mountain. At the top of the mountain I feel both all alone and like I’m standing on the world’s biggest stage. Everyone wants a show. An actor friend told me they have the urge to take off all their clothes when they are standing before an audience. There’s something to this. I should speak in this moment but I haven’t prepared a word. I wish a bird would land on my finger right now. Something.
Like We’ve Been Here Before
Something about the light. A morning makes a sound, doesn’t it? No answer. It’s easy to forget waking up is holy. A crow somewhere. I used to be a boy with a fishing rod and a dog. I used to be a trail in the woods. I used to be the smell of pine needles. Tall grasses come and go every year. We walk to the river. One fish and then another. Brook trout lay eggs in fall, rainbow trout in spring. Our hands in the water. Ice cold today. What about tomorrow? No answer. Things come and go. We could be alive here in any form. Someone you love could be a tree for a hundred years. After that, would you rather become firewood or rot for beetles? No answer at first. You want to be a roofbeam.
Jeffrey Hermann's work has appeared in Okay Donkey, Electric Lit, Heavy Feather, Passages North, and other publications. His first full-length collection of prose poetry and flash fiction will be published by Unsolicited Press in 2027. Though less publicized, he finds his work as a father and husband to be rewarding beyond measure.