Burying the Sheriff

A new poem by Stephen Sexton.

Pacific, Alex Colville, 1967. Re-printed here with permission from the Colville Estate.

Let’s not get into whose father’s face he had,

or how sunset through the spare trees

lit the oak-panelled bar so splendidly

a tin spittoon japanned with roses

became a flowerbed with dirt and bees,

match cut to a dream sequence of harps.



The sheriff is gut-shot, doomed, just strong enough

to whisper who made off across the blue plains

on two paperweights thumping a phone book

(a ring of house keys for stirrups and spurs),

towards a camp of crinkling envelopes

and not steak, but its sizzle for rain.



The undertaking takes place off-screen:

sponge and bucket, lather and straight edge.

Since no one ever sees the craft, there’s no point

pretending my razor isn’t real and sharp.

Where wind concentrates in the churchyard

I use shovels and earth for shovels and earth.



This is how it goes: one day you’re the sheriff

running wide-sleeved card cheats out of town,

golden hour elbowing the swinging doors.

Meanwhile over the ridge, a weather system

of opening credits rolls across the sky.

Your life, you learn too late, is backstory.