The Carpet

by Daniel Ruefman


Under ten years of deadfall
was soft earth, black as tar,
and the wiry roots
of the new growth
crawled through
a roll of orange shag,
older than the house we lived in.
 
Saplings impaled the carpet,
transecting, tying
each layer
to whatever it was
that lie at core of the thing,
that lured the roots
there to feed.
 
When the earth finally yielded,
a russet stain at the center of the mass
called to mind the image of blood,
and I wondered what blood would look like
if buried ten years on in the old woods
that would become my back yard.
 
The sodden fibers were heavy
as I heaved and threaded it
between two trees along the fence line,
and up the hill to the gate,
until it wedged itself on the stump
of the old cherry that we burned
in the fire pit last spring.
 
Nothing else to do, I fetched
the serrated blade and held it
willing the carpet empty
as I sawed at the thatched bottom;
implausibly bright, clean threads
were shed as I sawed, falling to earth
like dandruff on a bedspread in winter.
 
I imagined the horror of the blade
grinding against bone,
catching on the matted hair
or thick sweater of a corpse I would discover.
I practiced telling of my discovery
to the village police officers
who would call the Sheriff,
who would call the FBI,
who would call a family in need of closure;
 
I practiced my no comments for cameras
that would soon be camping on my lawn
and felt the anger sparked by the vulgarity
of the spectacle they’d bring down
upon this tiny riverside town,
and the rumors that would drive us out--
 
until my blade struck dirt,
and finding neither meat,
nor bone—human or otherwise--
I sighed with relief and lifted
each segment of carpet free
of the trees, and into the steel
dumpster, waiting in our drive
 
            chancing one last glance
            at the stain, and thinking
            it must have been wine,
            that’s all.
 
 

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Daniel Ruefman’s works of poetry and fiction have appeared widely in periodicals, including Burningword, The Barely South Review, Minetta Review, Sheepshead Review, and many others. He is the author of the chapbook Breathe Automatic and currently teaches writing at the University of Wisconsin—Stout. To learn more visit his website