Prose Poem: “distant constricted arteries” by Jim Warner

—even still, the shoe polish sky’s chicken and beneath it we are racing towards abandoned storefronts. Pop promise from blister pack. The foil backing is a silver thumbprint, is a sentence fragment, is a mission accomplished, is the remainder left on a passenger seat. Rumbling gulp. Dry swallows. You are not a choking victim. There is powder on your fingers. Licked clean it still burns like rubber. The windshield has a hairline fracture—an X-ray vain: ripe-for-rupture stroke victim. F.A.S.T. You are not a choking victim. The road ends where our tires begin. The clutch tastes like Tylenol and ash. Who would’ve thought unclicking a seatbelt would sound so much like a cassette being ejected into the heart of a Dear John letter? There was this song by Bob Dylan who looked so much like your uncle—




Jim Warner’s poetry has appeared in various journals including The North American Review, RHINO Poetry, New South, and he is the author of two collections from PaperKite Press. His latest book, actual miles, will be released in late 2017 by Sundress Publications. Jim is the host of the literary podcast Citizen Lit and is a faculty member of Arcadia University’s MFA program.


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