|The silk shrouded Rose
He found a heart frozen on a park bench, the stench masked by the ice and falling snow. The crows had found it too, and watched in silence.
Cy knew this heart, had mended it once or twice. "The splices have not held," he cursed. The murder of crows just nodded. Prodded, the quintessential force of life was stirred within the silk. Eyes whirred at black feathers in dismay. Betrayed! It was alive.
Spied, the crows sped aloft, but Cy remained, remembering when last it pulsed, held by his hand. No sand could measure the toll that time had taken. Shaken he picked up the silken rags. He begged that this time would be the last.
Just as before.
The more he thought, the question long repressed arose. Suppose the heart would never die! In reply, the silk beat slowly to his touch. It was enough to be held again. It quickened with the heat.
This cheated man savored it once; still, it adored him in return. Cy spurned these wayward notions, motioned to all to clear the way. Today, he would rid himself of this! Now pissed, he passed into the shelter, placed his silken package by the hearth. With one last memory of fragrant flowers that had bloomed in May, he left.
Bereft, she woke to the embered light reflecting off the melting tears, the years cloaked by the silken shroud. Aloud she called his name. No answer came. Quietly, she gathered her cloak of silk and rose to wander through the park.
Encircled by a murky brood, upon a bench she sat, and spat to them in grief:
“My name is Rose. Please heed my last request.
Gently pluck my hair; my flesh is yours. Leave just the heart, and cover it with silk. Enshroud my soul, protect it with your feathers from the falling snow. Hold vigil by this bench.
He will return.
© Kåre Enga
22 april 2004
Catalogue number [161.101]
This prose poem was written at the Tulsa Writer’s Café in about 20 minutes and received the compliment, “That’s spooky.” It’s somewhat different from my “normal” fare.
NOTE TO RATERS/REVIEWERS:
This is poetry. It is a vignette. A prose poem may have a bit of a narrative, but uses poetic devices: rhythm, rhyme, alliteration, image, etc. It is not a short story. It is not flash fiction. It needs to be rated as poetry first. If you feel it is prose, please comment. The line between the two is murky . I have decided to format it in prose form after speaking with Prof. Klayder.