Pines have lean souls and never feel trapped
in the forest.
They are in perfect health and beautiful. The salesman says this, like a pediatrician
to the mother with fluttering, drained hands.
The starry lambent light makes way for no cars in the parking lot,
a long summer impeaching November-December’s wealth of sales,
chronic restocking of gin-scented needles. Indoors, the night riddles with quiet.
When the natural world recycles, the artificial never dies, becomes a chilly filibuster. Landfills of winter-bones acquire and remain, hushed and crowded, like a mob of pre-disposed bodies.
About the author
Christine Reilly lives in New York, New York, but used to live in London and Northern Ireland. She teaches at the Professional Children's School…Read the full bio
Issue 18 · June 2013
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes