Prose Poetry and Fiction from Web del Sol

Peter Johnson


Today I learned “gomez” meant ox-urine. It was a day fat with the flight of errant soccer balls. My son refusing for the first time to hold my hand. I wanted to tell my wife about that, but all I could say was “floating” and “prison.” I wanted a chauffeur. I wanted to pick up the chauffeur-phone and say, “James, please bring up the car. I have a soccer game to attend.” At night, the stars on my son’s ceiling anchor the room. “Stars.” “Room.” I hold his limp hand and whisper, “floating,” “prison.” With my thumb, I draw soft lines on my wife’s face, rest my head on her lap. In the kitchen, the cat’s playing with his food, ice cubes hardening at the mere thought of “drink.”