Clay Matthews
A Museum of Fables
The red door of an empty tobacco warehouse
elegizes the auction and antique. An ensemble of bulbs:
streetlight and daffodil, the fluorescent hum of a hallway
and the long sidewalk out to where the irises come up.
My little girl sings lullabies to herself, and the dream says I’ll yet live
to see a thousand more harvests and vintages.
I remember the hearth of a hollowed out tree, dying—the hunting
dogs that came, but not like you think. Not like that
at all. A pointer, pointing. The pheasant in the field,
the low light of the barnyard at dusk, the cock and a kernel
of corn. In the cookbook of peasantry I find
a history of vinegar and jars, a slow soup made of hambone
and beans, the dog crying at the back door
when I throw the leftovers out. A neighbor’s cat balls up
in a ragged recliner on the porch―
April and honest folks’ houses; we empty the bowls
and fill them again with clean water.
Whoever asked the crow to sing? What small door
does the wren fly here through? Spring begats green.
Green begats a swallow calling out: beware.
In the afternoons we watch how slowly our seeds rise
from the dirt. Birds bicker at the feeder,
I roll out the garbage and think about ghosts
catching people before they fall down stairs.
Clay Matthews has published poetry in journals such as The American Poetry Review, Black Warrior Review, Kenyon Review, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere. His most recent book, Shore, was recently released from Cooper Dillon Books. His other books are Superfecta (Ghost Road Press), RUNOFF (BlazeVox), and Pretty, Rooster (Cooper Dillon). He teaches at Tusculum College in Greeneville, TN, and edits poetry for the Tusculum Review.
Return to May 2018 Edition
The red door of an empty tobacco warehouse
elegizes the auction and antique. An ensemble of bulbs:
streetlight and daffodil, the fluorescent hum of a hallway
and the long sidewalk out to where the irises come up.
My little girl sings lullabies to herself, and the dream says I’ll yet live
to see a thousand more harvests and vintages.
I remember the hearth of a hollowed out tree, dying—the hunting
dogs that came, but not like you think. Not like that
at all. A pointer, pointing. The pheasant in the field,
the low light of the barnyard at dusk, the cock and a kernel
of corn. In the cookbook of peasantry I find
a history of vinegar and jars, a slow soup made of hambone
and beans, the dog crying at the back door
when I throw the leftovers out. A neighbor’s cat balls up
in a ragged recliner on the porch―
April and honest folks’ houses; we empty the bowls
and fill them again with clean water.
Whoever asked the crow to sing? What small door
does the wren fly here through? Spring begats green.
Green begats a swallow calling out: beware.
In the afternoons we watch how slowly our seeds rise
from the dirt. Birds bicker at the feeder,
I roll out the garbage and think about ghosts
catching people before they fall down stairs.
Clay Matthews has published poetry in journals such as The American Poetry Review, Black Warrior Review, Kenyon Review, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere. His most recent book, Shore, was recently released from Cooper Dillon Books. His other books are Superfecta (Ghost Road Press), RUNOFF (BlazeVox), and Pretty, Rooster (Cooper Dillon). He teaches at Tusculum College in Greeneville, TN, and edits poetry for the Tusculum Review.
Return to May 2018 Edition