This week’s poem, Sett Vincent’s “A Maine Gothic from a Pseudo Local,” brings us into scenes of a Maine transplant’s life in both the solitude and the community of winter. I love this prose poem’s vivid narration and rich images and sounds – “antlers in the basement,” a mysterious creaking, a DoorDash dasher’s Maine accent. I also love how this poem depicts the quiet salvation of simple conversation and communion, even and especially in deep winter.

Sett Vincent (he/him) is a mixed-race youth of color who moved to Maine from Connecticut and who talks openly about his autism and his experiences of not finishing high school and being born into poverty. His work is focused on finding systems of harm and replacing them with care, and on connecting with people as whole human beings. His humanity is focused on building community, knitting and creating art that helps him process the world around him.

A Maine Gothic from a Pseudo Local
By Sett Vincent

Antlers in the basement make good chew toys for dogs. You do laps in circles before you sit. There’re books everywhere, but you’ve never seen anyone read. Maybe the books are born from the trees around us—there’s too many for us to ever know. You DoorDash Dunkin, the only store open on a Sunday. Your dasher ignores your No Contact request and talks to you about the snow and his dog, Macy, who never hada issue before now, is recovering from ha surgery real well now. You’re excited to hear from him again next time you can afford to DoorDash.

When you’re alone in the kitchen, there’s a creaking from the living room. You never find the source, but it keeps the cat company. These buildings are older than you, they’re never yours. You accept that
quickly.

You take your dog out in the backyard. There’s something in the woods behind your house. Crawling, creeping. You aren’t sure if its a bear, bobcat, or something the locals have avoided for eons, but it hasn’t hurt you yet. You just call your dog over, he doesn’t notice it. He comes inside and waits to bark at the doorbell. You know that something harmful wouldn’t alert you of its presence like that, but appreciate the sentiment. He’s trying.

The winter is hard. Your neighbor brings you home-laid eggs. You give her coffee when her car won’t start in the middle of the storm. You talk about Macy.

Megan Grumbling is a poet and writer who lives in Portland. Deep Water: Maine Poems is produced in collaboration with the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance. “A Maine Gothic from a Pseudo Local,” copyright 2022 by Sett Vincent, appears by permission of the author.

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