Poetry: Carter Smith

Snow Hill

Carter Smith

 
Slate tile
fallen off
the slate-
covered steeple

                                                I believe
                                                in if not
                                                the flowers
                                                she plant
                                                ed, then in
                                                you,
                                                creek bed,
                                                black
                                                roots in
                                                your water
                                                where the
                                                boys
                                                tied the
                                                bottles

and they sank
let’s re
member and say it:
they were not
azaleas but
a flower I can
no longer
know the
name of: help me

                                                little room
                                                where I
                                                learned to
                                                write, was
                                                read to,
                                                telling
                                                time, a
                                                joke, holding
                                                your mouth
                                                this way
                                                to sing or
                                                whistle
 

 
Carter Smith’s poems have appeared in Pleiades, Packingtown Review, and Little Red Leaves. He lives in Austin, Texas.