Mar/Apr 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 2 NonfictionMarch 1, 2015 |

Garden of the Fugitives

At night, in the fish-light of the moon, the dead wear our white shirts To stay warm, and litter the fields. We pick them up in the mornings, dewy pieces of paper and scraps of cloth. Like us, they refract themselves. Like us, They keep on saying the same thing, trying to get it right. Like us, the water unsettles their names. Sometimes they lie like leaves in their little arks, and curl up at the edges.           Charles Wright, "Homage to Paul Cézanne" There were always more of the dead to find, as well as what the dead had carried. This time, in the Villa of Diomedes, when they discovered the skeletons of eighteen adults and two children, they found not only a wooden casket and a string of blue stones, a hairpin and vase, wine still sealed in amphorae, thirty-one silver coins, forty-four bronze coins, four finger rings, and a candelabra, but also, preserved within the hardened ash, the precise contours of where someone's flesh had been: an ar

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Matt Donovan is the author of the collection of essays, A Cloud of Unusual Size and Shape: Meditations on Ruin and Redemption (Trinity University Press 2016) as well as two collections of poetry – Vellum (Mariner, 2007) and Rapture & the Big Bam (Tupelo Press, 2017). He is the recipient of a Rome Prize in Literature, a Whiting Award, a Pushcart Prize, a Creative Capital Grant, an NEA Fellowship, and the Larry Levis Reading Prize. He’s currently writing a book about American gun culture, and collaborating on the chamber opera Inheritance about the life of Sarah Winchester.

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Dew Point

By Matt Donovan

At night, in the fish-light of the moon, the dead wear our white shirts To stay warm, and litter the fields. We pick them up in the mornings, dewy pieces […]

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