Erika Coetzee

Red herrings: a prose poem

On the way to absolutely, I stumble over clues. Misleading directions through the backyards of truths. Wouldn’t have to worry about making wrong turns, if ghosts didn’t grab at maybe down tentative alleys, and if hoodlums and insurance salesmen wore avoidable coats, and no shadows were attached to advertising promises, and if 101 therapies didn’t claim to heal you and sob stories never swapped places with happy endings. If only I were fixed undoubtedly to the ground I would feel the yes of course with the toes of my roots, I would know the shape of wisdom, I would recognise the taste of good. But as it is, no doves nestle in my either/or hands, and red herrings litter all my hints of understand.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s