Posted by: Shanna Germain | 12/29/2009

Pg. 192: 5-Minute Poem

Sometimes things just take on a life of their own, don’t they? Especially when you’re writing. I started with High Lonesome on a bunch of bricks in downtown Ft. Worth and ended up with a prose poem that, really, has little to do with any of that.


High Lonesome

In lesser hands, this would be a pie. In mine, it is two scorched oven mitts and a castoff crust. This recipe is the only souvenir from the flame-baked kitchen. Nana stole it from a turkey somewhere in the Idaho woods. Now it’s photocopied on index cards, passed around the table like leaves. Nothing is scarce anymore. Between my fingers, what should have stuck together becomes a million crumbs. The things we destroy in the making. There are cherry pickers for a reason. My thumbs bleed like maraschinos. Every drop a letter home.


Kiss kiss bang bang, s.



  1. Nice – mine started out as a poem (last night) and suddenly became a short story.

    or rather that the – bah.. who knows. I’ll email it to you 🙂

    PS: It’s a balmy 21 degrees here with a wind chill of 18 and 100% chance fo freezing your bleeping face off.

  2. Ooh, a story! I’d love to see it.

    Snowing and blowing here too.

    I am missing your humor 🙂

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