Fall 2004 • Vol. XXVI No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2004 |

Letter to the Unconverted

And what would you say if I told you the deer had spoken?        Two animals, we were face to face in the wood And stopped each other dead in the last light        Of day, the cold coming down the hillside, Descending as ash that would preserve us like this, Clay jars that could crumble at the lightest push, Here in this moment, or the next (that haven                Of the already dead), crumbling in a flash Of powder, still too late to catch the spirit        Escaped, wild and full of unknown sound, Virgin language to the eager ear,        Beautiful unearthly distance unwound. What would you say if I told you this? The light        Detached like a ghost, expanded before it broke With bark and dirt, and watched the two of us

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Jason Gray is the author of Photographing Eden (Ohio UP, 2008), winner of the Hollis Summers Prize, and two chapbooks of poetry, How to Paint the Savior Dead (Kent State UP, 2007), winner of the Wick Chapbook Award, and Adam & Eve Go to the Zoo (Dream Horse, 2003). His poems and reviews have appeared in Poetry, Missouri Review, Image, and elsewhere.

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By John Koethe

And what would you say if I told you the deer had spoken?        Two animals, we were face to face in the wood And stopped each other dead in the […]

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