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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 4, December 2015

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Steven Carter
Tucson, Arizona, USA


Soul in Twain

When others fall in love with your special place, how do you feel?

Are you happy because others see it through your eyes—because they, too, are happy as you were about the golden hills; the cliff with a white horse at the top looking downward; yellow fennel with a licorice fragrance; salt-breezes off San Francisco Bay; the grove of live-oak trees where, by necessity, you first learned to tie your shoes . . .

Are you unhappy because your secret has been discovered: raising the ugly possibilities that our secrets keep secrets from us; that this special place isn’t so special after all; that someone else is trespassing where you once trespassed (though you never knew who or what entity owned these hills north of Alto, California.)

Or is it both? But something in me balks at “both.”

—Why? Is it because all men are I-lands?

Will this be your answer when Mother Teresa, guarding the Pearly Gates since St. Peter took his DO I LOOK LIKE I CARE? coffee cup with him when he went on holiday, asks questions of you?

Will she send one half-soul to heaven, the other to, um, Chagrin Falls, Ohio?

August
the pale gold of fool’s gold
dead grass

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