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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 2, June 2013


Glenn G. Coats
Prospect, Virginia, USA

Invisible Ink

I lose track of them: phrases, sentences, whole paragraphs, middles, beginnings, endings. The words are somewhere, folded and put away in books, scribbled on yellow pads or in journals without titles. There is a poem about raspberry jam which is really about a man named Sam who works at a factory, and has a son serving in Vietnam. Another was written the night before a wedding in New York and tells how for just one weekend the walls of silence can tumble down, and factions within a family can talk with one another. There is a story about a young man, a loner, who discovers a nest of eagles deep in the forest, and is desperate to show them to someone else. All of those words are missing.

They are like nieces and nephews I no longer see, second cousins that I grew up with; I remember them as children but wouldn’t know them as adults. What do they think about the world, about politics, about religion? What do they care about, dream about? How do they remember? My words are destined to remain, in my memory, children; they never had a chance to grow up.

blue shadows
wind shakes a tarp
from the woodpile



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