A Prose Poem
by JD DeHart
Faulkner in February
I remember the first time someone handed me Faulkner to read. Was it February? That would be about right. It seems that it was. A teacher who handed me many voices. Ayn Rand. Vonnegut.
February, a short month, not a greedy one, a blur this year. February comes and goes rather quickly. Sometimes a time of loss. Words and names I don't want to go into right now.
Two years ago, I made a pilgrimage back into The Sound and the Fury. It was a furious time, snow pelting the road. I slid twice. I was a pallbearer for the first time in my life. It probably won't be the last.
Did I think of Addie being carried off to her burial site? I wish I could say I did, but I was too concerned with the cold temperatures, working my way through pages at night. Wondering if electricity would stay.
The blip that was this February did not allow me a march back into Faulkner. It is perhaps the case that I will make a late return this spring, allowing my consciousness to stream alongside the author's, thinking again of meeting him the first time so many years ago.
More poetry from Winamop
Copyright reserved. Please do not reproduce without consent.