by Bob Heman
Stories
One story ends with fire, or with water, or a with a man falling through the air. Another ends with a woman digging in the earth, searching for a different way for the story to end. Each time a man appears he is a different man, wearing a different suit of clothes. Each time a woman enters she is the same woman, always asking the same question over and over again. Sometimes an animal is required to end the story in an appropriate way.
The Map
Sees something different on the map than he is intended to see. He thinks the road is a river, and the cluster of buildings a place to disembark. The length of the river depends only on where the map ends or begins. There are places where he must make decisions he is not yet able to make. He does not know how the journey will end. He does not know what is hidden in the section marked “forest.”
Direction
If there are stairs the narrative will be taken to the second floor. Or down into the cellar where something that is sleeping waits to be awakened. There are windows that cannot be opened, and others that cannot be closed. There is a door that is only the replica of a door, and a manikin that resembles the man who stands silently on their lawn. It is only when the dog barks that the moon starts to approach. It is only then that the meaning of the caption becomes obvious.
Bob Heman's prose poems are included in the anthologies A Cast-Iron Aeroplane That Can Actually Fly: Commentaries from 80 Contemporary American Poets on Their Prose Poetry (MadHat Press), An Introduction to the Prose Poem (Firewheel Editions), and The Best of the Prose Poem: An International Journal (White Pine Press).