prose poetry and fiction

so they plowed the virgin soil of carthage

i’m sorry i can’t tell you about the chamomile fields. it hurts so much, talking about imaginary places like that. i’m keen to avoid it. coming back, that is. looking back, twisting my poor neck, desperately hungry for an eidolon, slowlyslowlyslowly. i’m really trying to be a better kid now, so i burned them. burned and salted the entire land, with all the kindness i could muster.