Cover Page

Northwood

Title Page

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2018 by Maryse Meijer

First published in the United States in 2018 by Black Balloon, an imprint of Catapult (catapult.co)

Jacket and book design by Jonathan Yamakami

Jacket illustrations by Rufus Newell

ISBN: 978-1-948226-01-1

eISBN: 978-1-948226-02-8

Catapult titles are distributed to the trade by Publishers Group West

Phone: 866-400-5351

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018938765

Printed in China

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedication

For D.

Because

a fire

THE WORLD

THE WORLD

I don’t draw you anymore.

I want

to see

through the trees.

The way the pen        used

to feel,

a weapon,       drawing       blood       from the page:

not a hymn,

not          an homage—

why are the best songs       love songs       I want

to draw

death but       death       doesn’t       make

music. On the page       or

elsewhere.

The wood

doesn’t care       if you live

or die.    It

is dying       all the time. Living.       Unsurprised.

But I

am not

a wood, I am not       a stream I mourn

the branch that

breaks          from its body

and I want

to make       a mark       more than I want

to make          love

but I was

only

ever       good          at this one

fucking       thing

THE HIEROPHANT

THE HIEROPHANT

I’d only been away

for a day no city no

sky I recognized, how full it was,

the hard stars so cold-shouldered

blinking You are alone,

Only not quite:

there was the stream, after all, and the trees,

and ants relentless over the counters,

the foxes fucking their way through the evenings

their screams so human it chilled me,

high slaughterhouse sound

whistling in every direction.

I could not get the fire started and the floors had no carpets

and the boots I brought had a hole in them and the dew

came through.

I went out to the porch and put my head against the post.

I knew what a car was. I knew

convenience stores and dollar hot dogs and coffee

that appeared

when my money appeared and the phone ready to ring

and the traffic like the sea

lapping the concrete coast of the sidewalk,

24 hours, something always open.

I wanted to get away and I was away

and there was that sky that seemed to say, You know nothing.

I took my pencils out, my paper, my ink.

The rough table was short on one leg and when I drew

it rocked from one side to the other.

Moths flew from the cabinets.

I had never been in love.

KINDLING

KINDLING