The Man Who Saws Us in Half: Poems

Minimum

67 Minimum 1· In my town, a cluster of houses, two streetlights, a one-room post office, and a stop sign whisper that this is a -ville, a -burg, a -ton. 2· At the capital museum’s “Indian Village” diorama, no moccasined foot ever trod its grass-plugged plain, not one war whoop ever rattled clouds. None of the soldiers see, but they all stare. 3· The tiny cemetery the other side of my neighbor has one piece of wrought iron fencing its corner, a lichen-covered and cracked headstone dated 1789, and another lying in grass with half the date and name worn away. If a single item here sank, disappeared, or was stolen by vandals, its somber identity would crumble. 4· The fewest snowflakes to keep a blizzard trapped in a glass globe that rests on my grandmother’s bed table— just enough snow to make it seem endless when I pick it up. 68 Let alone, the naked air stays clear. The church with doors that don’t open, windows that won’t raise, just stands. A glassy sky waits. The least snow sleeps on everything. ...