Blood Fugue

⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀I’d been packed and moving out, prepared to leave as requested. That
⠀⠀⠀⠀was not a departure good enough to leave vacancy enough for incoming
⠀⠀⠀⠀visitors to slip into. Halfway up the stairs inside, back through one of the
⠀⠀⠀⠀front windows, one of your latest invited guests aimed his gun at me,
⠀⠀⠀⠀fired a shot way off target and several more as blindly missing, then
⠀⠀⠀⠀happened by luck to get one shot to crease my scalp enough to draw blood,
⠀⠀⠀⠀then one last lucky shot nearby before his remaining attempts went fading
⠀⠀⠀⠀off like a receding summer storm, that soon done.
⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀”Yellow,” that word choice seemed too harsh to be meant at you the way
⠀⠀⠀⠀your note was written, so I realized you wanted me to respond by telling
⠀⠀⠀⠀you no, you weren’t so, that if anything I was the one yellow for not putting
⠀⠀⠀⠀up any more of a fight when asked to leave. Already the ink was becoming
⠀⠀⠀⠀too light to make out what else you might have wanted to say. Clearly I was
⠀⠀⠀⠀not to be sharing it with anyone else. Since you were truly sorry for not
⠀⠀⠀⠀running down to do anything to stop the shooting, that would have to be
⠀⠀⠀⠀between me and you. “Let’s be a friend, Cyn, don’t tell anyone.” You get to
⠀⠀⠀⠀be the one to say who got left by whom where why.
⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀So I left all my luggage, my books and my clothes, to be sent on after me.
⠀⠀⠀⠀Got myself a ticket on a long flight south. On a matter you wouldn’t want
⠀⠀⠀⠀to be bothered with, busy as you’ve been upstairs. Flight attendant took
⠀⠀⠀⠀one look at me, instantly upgraded me to first class, window seat. Man in
⠀⠀⠀⠀the aisle seat gets talking to me about how he works as a futurist for the
⠀⠀⠀⠀federal government. Impossible to get him to shut up, difficult to ignore.
⠀⠀⠀⠀Insists he read my palm. Oh damn it, ok. He sees all the lines filled in with
⠀⠀⠀⠀dried blood, I suppose run down from where I was shot, takes some on his
⠀⠀⠀⠀fingertips, sniffs lightly at it, lifts my hand to his nose to explore more fully,
⠀⠀⠀⠀closes his eyes, eventually returns my hand to me and lies back on his seat,
⠀⠀⠀⠀fast asleep. “What?” I whisper into his dreams. He replies without waking,
⠀⠀⠀⠀”One of us caught the wrong flight.”


prompted by Daily Prompt: Life Line at the Daily Post
[margin notes]

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13 Responses to Blood Fugue

  1. The final line gives this a certain ghost story / supernatural tinge–who has caught the last flight, all the blood sniffing, for me anyway these things add a “creepy” factor to the poem. That’s not a bad thing. It sharpens the edge — for me. I realize that may not have been your intention–but–we each bring what we bring to the table to read what’s on the plates.

    I do like how you made full use of this form for a story. O yeah.

    • I realize that may not have been your intention–but–we each bring what we bring to the table to read what’s on the plates.

      Intention? Oh yes, I have stampeding herds of intention. But you’re absolutely right on target about your freedom to bring your own tastes to the table when eating anything I’ve cooked up. The only one thing I ask is that a reader not impose presumptions on me and act on the basis of judging those presumptions to be me instead of their own misconceptions – as is probably pretty obvious by now, people telling me who I am based on their own bad experience riles me. But I don’t mean any of my poems to be sermons, except maybe to preach to myself, so I don’t impose my intentions on you in order for a poem to be meaningful to you. Far the contrary, not only is it “not a bad thing,” as you say, but it is a very good creative thing when a poem can mean something to you and your intentions that goes beyond what I and my intentions gave to the poem. Kinda like how a child was mine by birth and raising, but would be her own and would become your friend on your terms, not rigidly set by what I may have meant for her.

      As for the mysteries in this particular prose poem, I may get around to some margin notes like I’ve done for some of the poems I’ve posted. Not as a newspaper report version or to detract from the images of the poem itself, just to sit down over a glass of wine and mull it back a little. But I can say, your “creepy” reading isn’t far off from how it felt writing it.

      Thank you for reading and sharing. ✒Cyn

      • A little more–if you don’t mind–I realized as I read your comments that the poem changed for me when I read the final lines. Seriously, I felt it shift totally in my mind when I got to the end. I LIKED that because it created an unexpected response in my brainpan. But I am someone who does like that sort of ‘surprise’ movement. I mention it as feedback info for you as a poet. That’s my ‘why’ so to speak.
        Just to be clear–I don’t usually find your poems preachy nor do I read them as sermons either–many seem to come from the darker regions of experience. We have different experiences for sure. And dfferent perspectives. I have on occassion found myself to have totally missed something important simply because of how I relate to words themselves.
        It is also the reason I find myself the ONLY person laughing in a movie theatre at times–much to my son’s chagrin. Sometimes it’s because I see and relish the black humor lurking under the surface. Sometimes it’s because a turn of phrase tickles me with sublte style that few others appreciate as I do.
        I agree–the more versatile a poem is the better–never know what it’s going to do next. And that’s powerful–as least I think it is.
        Hello, Cyn.
        from Eva

  2. *big warm smile* Welcome to my head, welcome to my world, welcome to my poetry. ✒Cyn

    • Okay, please take this in the spirit of FUN in with it is offered–and, hey, keep in mind “welcome to my world” and this just immediately jumped out of the stewpot–you don’t have to approve the comment, but I do so hope it gives you a laugh as a sort ‘house/world’ warming gift. You can exchange it for another one that fits better. I won’t mind. Oh, good morning.

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