Two Prose Poems by Dehlia Rheanita Ackley

Monday, November 26, 2012



I can’t see any difference between my hands and heart. I use them both the same, they are being pulled toward the ocean. The beach grass becomes a trail I made in the sand. Made by the dragging of limbs. More than half the day I think with trees. I am not a tree. I am crawling toward the ocean. There is more than this one way of going down on the ocean, I’ve seen the sun do it different every time.


The one way to save the world is through food. There are three other ways to save the world nobody knows about. My butcher’s apron is very clean and white. My butcher’s apron is dripping with blood. He hands me two invisible brown packages of wrapped ghost meat. My butcher’s smile says your ancestors were vegetarians. There is something cold in the room with us when we eat our dinner.


Dehlia Rheanita Ackley is basically a poet in Portland, Oregon. She studied creative writing at Portland State University and is currently attending the IPRC’s Poetry Certificate Program. You can see her Twitter here and her blog here.

© 2012 – 2013, Metazen.

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