A Poem by Maggie Smith

Poor Sheep

Who sheared the fog from the mountains?
They’re bleating, nearly bald,
huddled together at the horizon.
Or I’m reading too much
into the landscape again. Projecting,
as if playing a recorded image of myself
on the screen of terrain. I am transparent
and quiet. You can’t quite see me
for the trees, my wet eyes gone
greener than pines. I don’t belong here
with these poor sheep. My skin,
all forest and manifestation
of the interior. You can see the mountains
through me. That’s how projection works.


Maggie Smith is the author of Good Bones (Tupelo Press, fall 2017), The Well Speaks of Its Own Poison, and Lamp of the Body. Smith has received fellowships from the NEA, the Ohio Arts Council, and the Sustainable Arts Foundation. She lives and writes in Bexley, Ohio.

The Poetry Section is edited by Mark Bibbins.