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geography :: vanessa stauffer

by on January 19, 2016

Our father counts seven dusky shadows
beneath the elm, but my brother points out
one more – a fawn, motionless, alert –
& leashes the setter at this feet, hopes

the dog won’t shatter the precarious
hush. We’re overlooking the Susquehanna
from the back porch of his new house,
the river hills “round as loaves of manna

dropped from Heaven,” he tells me, his laugh
startling the whitetails. The heard dissolves,
vanishing in twilight as our father curses
their quick flight & my brother thinks of

dawn, when he’d stood like The Geographer
at his window, studying his square of the earth.


From → poems

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