We’d gone out on a limb camping
in the wild. Out of everyday life
so as to sit below the water,
cross-legged, me fingering beads
in my bracelet, you chanting like
an oracle, barely audible.
Where we find our true selves,
we said. Looking down at fishes,
vivacious, open-mouthed. Centered
in our head space–grand rat-a-
tat-tat documentary end.
Jauntily we held hands.
Prompt: So I was wondering, would you rather be promptless? So I can commute to a cubicle to do some real work? So I can go up a mountain and sit by a waterfall? So I can chow down a bowl of clam chowder with crusty bread? Well, I’m just kidding. Don’t look at me with that steely gaze. It’s creepy. The prompt’s coming right up. It is to write about something that is out of everyday life. What? You mean, write about everyday life? No, I mean, something that’s out of … so you know, that isn’t everyday life, like you know, out in a cabin somewhere kind of life.