~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Angus Woodward

Everyone Writes a Mary Oliver Poem at Some Point

When you open your eyes, the eyes

you thought were not closed,

you will see how deep

you have been buried. Death

has not stopped for you, no,

but you laid your body out

on the forest floor, letting

seasons pass, black oaks dropping

a bible's worth of leaves each

week, winds filling all your crannies

with their dust, bugs and worms

cozying up to you or making paths

across your torso. Passing years

have caused browning, crumbling,

dampness, settling, pulverizing.

You might think the accumulated

weight has paralyzed you. Learn

to move again, starting with toes

and fingers. Wait until the dead

of night, then try an arm. Start

pushing, scooping, bucking.

It will take a long time to fight

off the dirt, the loam, the humus,

to break the grip of thickening

roots, work around ants' nests,

pierce the ground. Fight free.

Lie sighing on top of the earth.

Breathe slower. Brush away

broken soil. You will be

the first to notice you

standing upright again.

Angus Woodward was raised by southerners in the Midwest and moved to Louisiana in 1987. His books of fiction are Down at the End of the River (Margaret Media, 2008), Americanisation (Livingston Press, 2011), and Oily (Spaceboy Books, 2018). Recent work has appeared in Hobart, Slag Glass City, and Shenandoah, among others.