Denise Duhamel


When I was brushing my teeth this morning, I first noticed the prose poem on my forehead: The kiwi pities the bald lime... Then, the prose poem in my rearview mirror: Eight blue sleeves reach for the blue parrot... As I stepped on the gas, the tiniest prose poem of all on my big toenail: Fetus daisy. There was even a prose poem embroidered around my windshield: My spine is made of your footprints, my picture frame is made of your hair... Everywhere were little chunks of text, orderly graffiti, that baffled the critics on NPR. Harold Bloom was booming, claiming the prose poem didn't even exist, when Terry Gross said, "Dr. Bloom, with all do respect, isn't that a prose poem on your breast pocket?" There was a prose poem where the instructions for the parking meters used to be: Bend to kiss the water, find your lost hand in the nearest tree... The prose poem on the cop's license plate began: The violin thunderstorm, the cumulus flute, the harp strumming in each woman's heart...

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