| Carlton Lake by Sarah Maclay | ||
At sunset, it lies open like a huge sliced peach, nectar ruffling the bowl it sits in, brimming with light. All the way up the mountain, trees have fallen silently in winter and are silent now. We peel them back from the road, cut through brush, our shears giant scissors, neatening the hems. That sound you say is—say, a forest sighing. Then it's gone. The snow sighing. There is no more need for maps. This is my cathedral. I left all my dead weight on the road.
Sarah Maclay's debut book of poems, Whore, appeared in ForPoetry's Featured Book series last spring. Click here to read about Sarah Maclay and her book. |