My Last Poem
I am the perfect poem; I am so
well-behaved. Look at how my
lines line up like a gentle, even
path through the forest. My
tone’s cultivated, gently assertive.
My meaning well tended.
I do not want to startle the
reader. No sudden bloated
opossum corpses lurking around
the corner, no stumble
into tangled thickets, chiggers,
thorns. No strange rashes
or itches, just a gentle stroll
until…of course, there’s an until,
there always is. Sudden wind.
A drop in temperature.
Lightning strikes have been
detected 2.1 miles from this poem.
Take shelter. Lightning strikes now
detected .1 mile from this poem.
Severe weather has been pinpointed
exactly where you are.
Hail breaks through the lines’
canopy. A wind sheer carries
off your best thoughts. A mistake
has been made. Fatal errors have
occurred. There is too much
muchness in these woods.
Time to bushwhack your way
out. Poison ivy, ticks, copperheads,
everywhere. No matter. They
are you. This is
what you grew up with;
this is what you know.
A fellow hiker shouts over
the gale: you appear to be struggling.
Perhaps you should turn back.
To what? The melancholy of my bed,
the nursing of failing limbs,
the encroaching immobility,
a pillar of salt. Give me
what you’ve got. In this poem,
I will walk until I die,
I will crawl on all fours
until I expire. I will
go out as I came in.
Naked. Howling. Hole.
Lucy M. Logsdon has received a MacDowell Writing Colony fellowship and taught at The Frost Place. She received her MFA from Columbia University, and served as the Program Director at the National Book Awards. Currently, she teaches at Southeastern Illinois College. In her spare time, she raises chickens and ducks with her husband, and cares for various other aging critters.
