Last week at writers’ group, Ruth gave the rest of us a little and very interesting lesson in prose poetry. Our homework challenge was to write a prose poem with the theme of ‘war’. I didn’t completely stick to Ruth’s rules, but here’s my go…
She married for love
but wishes she hadn’t.
She goes through phases of having the 24 hour news channel on constantly,
or ignoring it completely.
She looks forward to Fridays, when she gathers with the others
to chat, to hug, to dance, to forget.
But most evenings she walks alone
from the kitchen, to the living room, to the bedroom
and back again.
The walls are a bit damp in one corner and the tiles around the bath have always been cracked,
but it is fine; it will do; it is the one thing she is grateful for.
She can see part of the town from her bedroom window
and she enviously guesses that those wives in those normal homes on those normal streets
don’t care so much about war.
