My Favorite Horseman

I doubt Kafka
and I would’ve been
friends. With him
it’s waiting on letters
from his fiancé,
with me it’s painting
my coffin, and the rain
holds the faces
of wild animals and Jesus
to my sliding door
as I go about
my recreational
grieving. Whereas
others are nihilists,
I’m looking through
the blinds. Years ago
if you’d asked me
who was my favorite
Horseman, I’d have
said 16-time world
heavyweight champion
“Nature Boy”
Ric Flair. It was for
his strange bumps
(how he lands
on the canvas)
and his begging
off opponents
before thumbing
their eyes.
Some people hate it,
his landing sideways.
But I say anyone
who survives a plane
crash bumps just fine.
Just the same,
now there’s not one
of the Four Horsemen
who speaks to me
the way Dottie Lasky does.
My heroes now make me
disbelieve determinism
temporarily. They make me
gather handfuls of snow
from my mouth
until I am face to face
with César Vallejo
who’s waiting on a public
bench with his burning
eyes fixed on
the animal light
radiating from the dark copse
of my satellite face.

Chris Prewitt is the author of Paradise Hammer (SurVision Books), winner of the 2018 James Tate Poetry Prize. Chris has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. Twitter correspondence welcome:@poetcprewitt.