Prose Poetry and Fiction from Web del Sol

Peter Johnson


“She was running in the field with the tall nettles,” but there were no nettles in my neighborhood. Just a line I stole. But she was running in the field. There was a fight. I looked on in tranquil wonder. Chains, like bats, flying from black leather jackets. She was yelling, “Get help,” knives swaying back and forth in the tall field. I yanked on my scapular. She was running because it was over her, because of things she did I could only imagine. She was running, barefoot and bruised in the tall field. She had never heard the word “nettles.” Even I wouldn’t come upon it until years later.