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.
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