A Prose Poem
by JD DeHart



Faulkner in February


I remember the first time someone handed me Faulkner to read.  Was it February?  That would be about right.  It seems that it was.  A teacher who handed me many voices.  Ayn Rand.  Vonnegut. 


February, a short month, not a greedy one, a blur this year.  February comes and goes rather quickly.  Sometimes a time of loss.  Words and names I don't want to go into right now.


Two years ago, I made a pilgrimage back into The Sound and the Fury.  It was a furious time, snow pelting the road.  I slid twice.  I was a pallbearer for the first time in my life.  It probably won't be the last. 


Did I think of Addie being carried off to her burial site?  I wish I could say I did, but I was too concerned with the cold temperatures, working my way through pages at night.  Wondering if electricity would stay. 


The blip that was this February did not allow me a march back into Faulkner.  It is perhaps the case that I will make a late return this spring, allowing my consciousness to stream alongside the author's, thinking again of meeting him the first time so many years ago.


a black line

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