I never noticed this fable of the northern woods, two pines trees on the crate advertising Twin Pines Milk, Detroit, Michigan, these things in attics, flowerpots in garages with last year’s dried leaves, some sympathy for the bats who are disappearing, too. Good natured, my mother-in-law thinks that all this stuff is a public medium, not a medium of weird public privacy. She leans over my shoulder as I write on the computer— reveals to me my own selfish weirdness, and the world’s, with self checkout this and so many choices, you could laugh. The braided Soviet horsemen came into her village, war’s end, and revealed the nature of the chamber pot by cooking cabbage in it, and the big cabinets by loading them with hay and mattress stuffing to sleep deeply in near the village fountain, and wristwatches by wearing them like bangles, and her girlhood by pulling her up on horseback to ride around and drop her off.
David Blair‘s first book, Ascension Days, won the Del Sol Poetry Prize. His poems have recently appeared in Barnstorm, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Ploughshares, Slate, and storySouth. He is associate professor at the New England Institute of Art in Brookline, Massachusetts. (10/2011)