Spring 2013 • Vol. XXXV No. 2 Poetry |

The Deer Woods

An empty tree stand and crushed beer cans below: imagine everything gone. You wake up one day and there is no face in the mirror. There is no mirror at all, really, and never has been, other than what we create. I am the one digging up shrubs in the backyard. I am transplanting. A root system like a treasure map—have you looked long at a diamond? Is it really all that arbitrary? Meth labs and used rubbers, ivy and shamrock, there's always something about to explode. If you can stand waiting then you can stand anything. If you can stand at all then you've one less thing to berate god or the world or yourself about. Has it been very long we've known each other? Have you been like a dead grandmother to me, watching from the distance that death affords, gazing through the gauze of cheap curtains and dirty windows, was it your light that I saw passing through the hallway? When I say there is no mirror I mean that we are everything. My self. My wife. My daughter.

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By Clay Matthews

An empty tree stand and crushed beer cans below: imagine everything gone. You wake up one day and there is no face in the mirror. There is no mirror at […]

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