A Poem by Maggie Smith

Poor Sheep

The Awl
The Awl in The Awl
Aug 3, 2017 · 1 min read

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.


is the author of Good Bones (Tupelo Press, fall 2017), , and . Smith has received fellowships from the NEA, the Ohio Arts Council, and the Sustainable Arts Foundation. She lives and writes in Bexley, Ohio.

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