Ode to a Writing Prompt

Which I chew / until my mouth fills / with broken glass. My husband walks to the pantry. / He wraps his arm around my shoulders. / He has questions but asks / only one: Cookie / (this is his name for me) / if you sort your life into prose poems / and place them on the shelf between the peaches / and the apple-pear jelly, don’t you think / they will be more palatable? / I consider boiling / the cold linoleum floor / four quarts at a time / while all twelve children / clamor up my legs listening for the lids / to pOp / as they seal. / But as the children lean in / they only hear their grandmother whisper / h-u-s-h / now child go to sleep / from a stranger’s bed. My husband runs / his finger over each of my / bruised / vertebrae. / pOp. pOp. pOp. / I turn to face his beautiful mouth. / He still has all thirty-two Mason jars / screwed in like lightbulbs / where other people have teeth.

There / on the tip of his tongue / is a poem.

Michele Johnson lives in the Cascade Mountains of Washington state. You can find her on Instagram @thelyricalwild.