Poems by Mather Schneider


The first night I had my driver’s license
I drank a 6 pack and bor­rowed my mother’s car.

I turned the head­lights on, backed out
and was about a half mile down the road

when I had a col­li­sion with a big deer.
He slid onto the hood as I hit the brakes

and when I skid­ded to a halt
he scram­bled down and ran off,

leav­ing me with a bro­ken light,
some blood on the paint, fur in the grill,

star­ing into the woods on a dark coun­try road,
not a scrap of meat for my trou­bled moth­er.


In the ceme­tery shad­ows
she pushed me against somebody’s grandpa’s
grave stone,

knelt in the excel­sior
of the pine mulch
and showed me

that god walked the earth.
Death’s rock etched my back
as I fought but

lost myself
into the wet vel­vet cor­ri­dor
of her throat.

My balls howled and a dark angel
clung to my leg.
Slow­ly the moon pulled

itself back togeth­er.
Not fifty feet away
beyond the flim­sy bor­der

of bougainvil­lea
rushed the insane traf­fic
of lost souls.


I was born in Peo­ria, Illi­nois in 1970 and have lived in Tuc­son, Ari­zona for the past 14 years. I love it here, love the desert, love the Mex­i­can cul­ture (most of it), and I love the heat. I have one full-length book of poet­ry out called DROUGHT RESISTANT STRAIN by Inte­ri­or Noise Press and anoth­er called HE TOOK A CAB from New York Quar­ter­ly Press. I have had over 500 poems and sto­ries pub­lished since 1993 and I am cur­rent­ly work­ing on a book of prose.


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