2 prose poems
by Johanna Lepro-Green
Johanna is taking your order at a restaurant in the Midwest.
A hole is a fiction until it is carved into a parasite. A hole is dangerous if not filled. A hole must be given a purpose. If a hole does not appear to have a purpose, it is an unmarked grave/an abandoned home/an open throat. We categorize it as haunted in our database: a disturbance, now vacant, marked by ghosts. If a hole of this nature is discovered on your property, we advise you to destroy it. Bring your sons to its edge and tell them it is an inverted wasps nest. Tell them it is a sinkhole or a hellhole. (We believe sons must learn the power of assigning names to unnamed things in order to believe that they are doing the right thing.) If you have daughters, do not show them the hole. We have learned that they believe it is a hope chest and will climb into it, never to be seen again.
Women facedown. Women belly up thumbsucking cottonmouthed drooling. Women sweating through cheap sheets. Women hot n heavy. Women going at it alone. Women in boxers slips pajama sets, creamed. Women dusted, pressed up against the mattress, grinding. Women still in work boots. Women red from the bath. Women knocked up out women in the weeds. Women rubbed clean, greased lids, missing. Unmarked, earning. Women entering and exiting doorways. Women slitted playing fishes reaching hands for rings down drains. Women lucid dreaming. Women pliable; counting. Women listing symptoms slippery sliding out alligators in the plumbing. Women as acreage. Women holding prairie fire memories. Women clothesline genuine rubies. Women good up early. Women moving backwards fuming. Women holding lantern, baby. Women oyster shucking; blooming