Jared Carter Poems

To the memory of Bob Lewis, citizen of Rensselaer, Indiana

Not particularly afraid
of Death, I have always
...

One

Not that it matters now, but Silhouette himself
was not an artist, as most people seem to think -
...

You, who stood there eating spinach
in the garden,
Seemed so noble. When God finished
making you, sin
...

Home-made candles, each consisting of
the pith of a rush dipped in tallow.

to the memory of my father
...

There is a grace in the way people do things, even the simplest tasks-
the dance with which their fingers encircle the chicken's gaze, coaxing
the edges of its eyes into paleness, their calling upon it to rest now,
their speaking in a way that acknowledges something common to both of them-
...

When you drive at dusk, alone,
after the corn is harvested, the wind
scatters bits of dry husk along the road.
A farmer has draped a groundhog's carcass
...

Prolonged exposure to extremes of sun and heat can cause madness, even death, yet there is said to exist one group of nomads who roam the desert unceasingly. Its members have never been studied; only one thing is known about them.

Before leaving each campsite they mix quantities of sand with colors extracted from native wildflowers, and spread out a series of vast, intricate patterns. Such creations are obscured by the wind within minutes after the tribesmen ride away.
...

Fettered to benches where the oars were broken off long ago, they had no choice but to row with their hands. While they strained toward the water below, the chains cut welts in their limbs, and the brine inflamed their flesh.

But in time their arms became elongated, and their sores were healed by the sea. Some rowed backward, some rowed forward, some merely threshed the waves. Always they struggled, new and old oarsmen alike, and the galley sailed on like a graceful swan.
...

Was it you I saw, out burning off weeds along the ditch
north of the old house? You I glimpsed through the haze?
You standing there with your leaf rake, your watering can,
you who woke up this morning knowing there would be no wind,
...

Sometimes the memory's gone. You get a call
for a country cemetery - no one knows
where anything is. No plat-book shows
the early graves. A man has just been hauled
...