Westward (prose lined as a poem)

By Paul Clark (aka motomynd)

I had all but forgotten Mary Oliver until listening to a recent Sunday morning NPR program. A quick read of a couple of her poems reminded me of how her writing is often described as “unadorned.” I think that is as an understatement. Her writing is sparse, vivid, brilliant prose. But is it poetry – and is she a poet, as she is generally described?
    In attempting to sort out her work, I’ve arrived at what is likely a stupid question: What exactly makes most of her work poetry, as opposed simply to great prose written in a funky, disjointed fashion? Examples abound at “10 of the Best Mary Oliver Poems.” Thinking about this brought me to my own bit of prose, which I chose to turn into an alleged poem by breaking it down in a funky, disjointed fashion. I titled it “Westward”:

The old brown car crawled westward,
Into another golden sunset,
The kind she used to love,
Then came to hate,
Because of the terrifying night,
That would inevitably follow.

He sent them westward,
While he stayed to fight.
Her hands freezing on the wheel,
Their 12-year-old daughter in the back,
Wrapped in a blanket,
Fearing what life might bring.

Blinded by the setting sun,
They had her before she knew,
Guns pointed in the windows,
Dragging her from the car,
He saw a face that looked far better than most,
Despite two months in this hell on earth.

Pulling open her coat, a sullen command to take it off.
Despite her terror she managed a smile,
Dropped to her knees, reached for his crotch,
A well-practiced move that had saved her many a time, 

From being just another aspiring starlet,
Face down and naked, dominated on a casting couch.

She began to unzip him,
Knowing life, not just a movie role, hung in the balance,
Her daughter, crying to her left,
As the other two fought to pull off her clothes.
“No!” she wanted to scream,
But staying alive was all that mattered.

She felt him move, make a small noise,
Topple almost on top of her.
With her daughter, topless, but now forgotten,
One of them turned toward her,
Began to raise his gun, then fell sideways,
Into the dirt lit like fire by the setting sun.

The third one dropped his gun,
Thrust his hands skyward,
Yelled “Please” just before a plume of red
Spouted from his forehead.
Her daughter clutched in her arms,
They awaited their fate.

“Go!” came a voice from the knoll,
More than a half-mile away.
A lethal killer, an unknown man with a gun,
Was today their savior and saint.
They climbed back into the old brown car, 

And drove westward, toward Lviv.

Copyright © 2022 by Paul Clark