Lumberjacks of Maine

were my grandfather and uncles.

 

They heated their house

with old flannels stretched

 

over the holes in the roof, and

long johns, nailed

 

to cover the cracked windows.

They ate shotgun meals

 

and drank the river.

They slept on single mattresses, in a single room.

 

They wore the same clothes.

They sang to each other.

 

They held parties

with invitations addressed only to them.

 

They held dances.

Three old men in a circle, laughing

 

getting dizzy from spinning in one direction.

They applauded when the mail came.

 

They loved English tea.

Every Christmas they called

 

at seven a.m. 

We didn't open our presents until they called.

 

My mother told me

that they don't have any presents

 

they only have each other

together, in a circle of arms.

 

 

Christopher Lawless was born in Perry, New York, raised in Farmington, Maine, and received a B.A. from Champlain College. His worked has appeared in “California Quarterly,” “Down in the Dirt,” “Bear Creek Haiku,” and “Willard and Maple.” He has been a featured poet at the Burlington Book Festival as part of the Grace Paley Poetry Series the last three years. His latest book, “East Slade, Maine,” captures the mystery of forgotten places and the history of forgotten people. Lawless’ poems combine the madness of imagery with sensual simplicity, creating an incantatory and elegantly strange world in which he gives us the microscope to view it. Christopher plans on teaching poetry and creative writing to young children. He is currently working on his second book, which he hopes to have out by the fall.

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