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: Dear god help my brother 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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