This is poem two for National Poetry Month. A friend wrote a poem following the prompt to write a poem about a book the writer has not read for a long time. She wrote about The Scarlet Letter. My poem is about the book, An Imaginary Life.

The Roman Emperor Augustus saw Ovid’s poetry as subversive,

a power threat. He exiled Ovid to a remote corner of the Empire,

somewhere over by the Black Sea, the Carpathian Mountains,

among the destitute, the superstitious, people who did even know

how to read or write. They believed in witches, feared ghosts, saw

evil in everything and everyone different. Different equaled

death.

Paid to host Ovid, the village leader teaches him to ride horses

bareback, hunt, become stronger. Ovid transforms from a weak

revolutionary who hates this place to one who sees the barren

beauty, wanders in the forests, plants a wildflower garden,

survives.

While hunting, they see barefoot tracks in snow, tracks

of a feral child, a boy. Ovid fears for him, finds him,

rescues him. An accident occurs. The villagers blame

the boy, want to kill him. He and Ovid escape,

wander far into the northern wilds, into

infinity.