Kevin L. Kennel

Feel the hooks pierce my flesh as the gentle trickle of the river soothes the pain which I
try to deny, but it burrows into my synapses and looms over the roadmap of my brain. A
roadmap where the diagram looks like the inside of a tornado while the acrid scent of my
capture breaks through the desperation of seeing you. Cigarettes and depression turn
my flesh grey in a white ash light of treacherous roads that lead to the sound of your
voice, but I know I won’t be tossed back. It is upon this rickety bridge with its missing
boards reminding me of days spent without you since they too are gaps seeking
fulfillment that I took your picture and didn’t realize it was used as bait until it was in my
hands. You were so cute in your brown sweater and orange cap and huge smile that it
became my favorite captured moment of you but you always stuck it in the glove
compartment when we rode in my car. Ever since you vanished, it remains there
and I doubt I will ever get used to seeing the visor empty. After I lifted the picture,
the first hooks pierced my skin. Instead of screaming in pain, I looked at the
androgynous figure dressed in the dark green trench coat with the rip in the left
breast that will never be repaired. This figure stood among barren trees with wet black
branches that had tips like knives ready to grab any wayfaring stranger and somehow
I knew if I approached the figure willingly, my blood would decorate the forest. It wanted
a fight to make the suffering sweeter. But what was there for me to embrace anymore?   
My reason to live disappeared with your last shovelful of dirt and I longed to rot with you

deep in the earth rather than caught by whatever this person was. There are no more
smiles from when we gazed into each other’s eyes and you no longer gently run your
index finger up the length of my face while I cup your chin in my firm but warm hand
before I wake up and bitterly remember how empty the bed feels. Is the elusive fisherman

a disguise for the cancer that took you? If so, in what form will it be when it breaks into
my reality?


©2012 This work is the property of the author.

  1. Some weighty words for a serious subject from Kevin, who submitted this as a poem, but because of the prose poem style, I decided it would be better placed in the prose section.

    Read his poem MOUSETRAP clicking the link:

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