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Dead Poets

Author Biography
Poetry By
  Seth Oakman

Published on: 3/22/2010
Found, Near the Burnt-out Husk of My Campfire Pit

Sunday morning. Just one small fragment
of paper, not cast aside, but placed. Half-
buried grits all fiber and ink. Its essential
parts supple. This campground - it's only used

on weekends. The letters barely scribbles;
the addressee in lowercase. Everything
misshapen by the hand, whose words run
downhill as if nothing could
save them as if nothing
could prevent our running
off an edge:

help my
from monsters

Published on: 3/19/2010
A Ten Pound Sledge Hammer

There is a hole
in the plaster wall - shrapnel

lining the foot of mother's coffee table.
I plant my hand into the house, and feel

a splintered beam. It reminds me how
my father would repair these things:

He'd drive the hardened spike
of his awl through my leather

belt. He made things endure as long
as they could - or longer

like that ten pound sledge hammer on the floor,
the head weighted, pressed into the carpet

like modern art. That hammer! It was his; he
would hand me nails and say

"keep these safe." And I would try
to squeeze my fist around their toothyness

because nails were that way on purpose.

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