Prompt from BlueJay Prompt Journal: What never mattered, anyway?
Somewhere in northern lousiana
but farther south than I’m willing to admit –
there’s a house with a dusty rose bar stool
that has had four dozen poems written about it
and a drawing of a monkey holding a unicorn
on faded newsprint paper – in charcoal far too
perfect to have been crafted by whim.
Together they hold on to everything that is left
of the person I was simultaneously most proud
and least proud of being – wrapped up in empty
bags that held kona coffee at one point – but smell
of pistachios – because that’s just how things in this
place were. They followed the rules of reality –
but were somehow still part of something entirely different.
It was in that house that you told me – to follow my dreams
and fuck the expectations thrust upon me. Where you said
you’d forever be my artist if only I could continue to write.
And now you’re back but the house isn’t and my eyes
swell with tears I don’t know how to explain. And you are
indeed my artist – but even that does not feel like