Ann Weil ~ Five Prose Poems

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The ad in the mag­a­zine at the eye doctor’s office says the peach fuzz on my face must be mowed, that these tee­ny-tiny hairs obscure my true beau­ty. I open my van­i­ty draw­ers over­flow­ing with giz­mos and whatchamacal­lits, serums and potions. Into the trea­sure, I plunge my hands, raise them sky­ward, wait for trans­for­ma­tion. At yet anoth­er stop along the Golden Years Highway, my audi­ol­o­gist says I’m los­ing my inner-ear hair cells. She doesn’t laugh at my cheek-to-canal trans­plant joke. Voices have begun to muf­fle like Charlie Brown’s teacher. I won­der which of my sen­sate organs will reach the fin­ish line first? I can no longer clear­ly see the milkweed’s fuzzy floss or the caterpillar’s fur­ry coat, but I can feel the silky down on my grandbaby’s head when she nuz­zles in the crook of my neck. In such moments, every­thing, every­one, is beautiful—the Campbell’s soup can, clean socks, Cece bring­ing the mail, this driz­zly day, me.

~

In the hos­pi­tal reg­is­tra­tion room

we sit like chil­dren wait­ing to be seen by the prin­ci­pal. And not like chil­dren, in that we are patient. No fid­get­ing, no fuss­ing. What else are the sick to do on a Tuesday after­noon? Don’t get old, one man jokes to anoth­er, and news­pa­pers rus­tle, trans­port­ing minds else­where as fail­ing bod­ies remain con­tent to sim­ply be. The clerk calls Number 27. One of our gang shuf­fles to the inner office. In the show­er this morn­ing, I stood under warm run­ning bliss. Steam rolling into my lungs, open­ing tight tun­nels as if let­ting in day­break. There are a few bless­ings to ill­ness. An ever-present, orange-vest­ed road con­struc­tion work­er holds the sign, SLOW DOWN. When I pass GO, instead of col­lect­ing two hun­dred dol­lars, I nab a nifty Get-Out-of-Work-Free Card. Best of all? Unlimited naps. The clerk calls Number 28. Onward, but I take my time.

~

The Time Unraveler’s Life 

The Professor of Lost Time wrote the book. At break­fast each morn­ing, he descend­ed into the world of Reddit— two hours gone, nev­er to be seen again. Next, he cleaned house, which is a true waste of time as it just gets dirty again. At lunch, the pro­fes­sor watched Seinfeld reruns and won­dered who was bet­ter in bed— George or Kramer? Following a brief pow­er nap, he went out in the gar­den to count flower petals. 11,347. He dug a hole and filled it up again. After a lemon­ade break, the pro­fes­sor searched the Internet for a per­fect birth­day gift for his dog. During din­ner, he played soli­taire because the dog was out, thus unavail­able for crib­bage. The pro­fes­sor got the hic­cups and spent an hour try­ing to scare him­self. There was no ele­ment of sur­prise. At nine, he went to bed, anoth­er day clos­er to the Ignoble Prize.

~

If I Were a Mountain, I Would Still Be Young

The birds chat­ter in Spanish. I do not under­stand what they say, nev­er hav­ing both­ered to learn their lan­guage. Too late now to sprout new wings and sing? Headlines will read Woman Believes She Can Fly, Leaps from Gumbo Limbo Tree. Unsuspecting Iguana Narrowly Skirts Death. How fool­ish I’ve been for think­ing time was a renew­able resource, for wast­ing even one tick! Now, time is a bomb, hurtling across el cielo toward mi vida. I slice the day with a sharp knife, no crumbs wast­ed. Unfamiliar verbs need con­ju­ga­tion. The moun­tain rumbles—I must hasten.

~

Summertime Blues, Key West

Soon, the hur­ri­cane sea­son blows in. Soon, we shut­ter and sand­bag. Soon comes the silence between bird­song and wind wail. Our neigh­bors storm the stores for cas­es of water, canned food, bat­ter­ies. We load our Kia Soul with all we can­not live with­out, queue for gas, join the snake of cars slith­er­ing up U.S. 1, blue skies turn­ing the col­or of bruise. Soon, we are glued to the radio, ears tuned for news. We imag­ine a wound­ed home, wor­ry over friends left behind. We ques­tion the san­i­ty of stay­ing, of risk­ing house and life on a lime­stone rock at the mer­cy of Neptune and Zeus, of human com­plic­i­ty and wave upon wave of denial. Soon, we say we’ll sell, but we won’t because soon, this too shall pass and we’ll return—the tidal pull of par­adise too strong to resist.

~

Ann Weil’s poet­ry appears in Best New Poets 2024, New World Writing Quarterly, Pedestal Magazine, Inflectionist Review, RHINO, Chestnut Review, DMQ Review, Maudlin House, 3Elements Review, and else­where. Weil is the author of Lifecycle of a Beautiful Woman (Yellow Arrow Publishing, 2023) and Blue Dog Road Trip (Gnashing Teeth Publishing, 2024). A four-time Pushcart nom­i­nee, Weil lives with her hus­band in Ann Arbor, MI. To read more of her work, vis­it annweilpoetry.com.