Micro Prose: Weird as the wind by Bryan D. Price

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WEIRD AS THE WIND

I put every organic thing in that basket put parrot feathers (there are three) in a pot to bring
back the dead they move with artificial wind I am cold as black wool dyed in that inkpot I
went on a tangent saying things I should not have said—who is and who is not ‘in it for the
money’ and it sounded like gossip the president is as liquid as a snake I give him credit for
his teeth but I buried my father in a blood red suit the flames blue at the edges we talked
about what might happen in the event of another Reichstag fire—I ought to hightail it up to
Montana and then over into Canada (no guns) you remember last words in all caps not the
missing trachea you remember last words in all caps not the thin ankles mottled with death
NOT awash in blood just freckled with blue black tesserae smuggling cigarettes into the
chapel Las Vegas was the last place on earth I saw you walk—ach! you fucker take my wings
the feathers levitating out of the pot I have failed to witness failed to encompass failed to
clamber onto your shoulders but wake to find me dreaming or seeming to dream wake to
find me weird as the wind and licking the earth for its essential salts shedding this life like a
skin or a couple of recessive genes grass growing under the armpits instead of a cancer

BRYAN D. PRICE‘s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Posit, the UCity Review, Pithead Chapel, Unbroken Journal, and others. He lives in San Diego with his wife, a dog, and a cat named for Pina Bausch.