INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Michael D. Long
Mary E. Finlan
Ann Arbor Review is an International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2005
All rights revert back to each poet.
Fred Wolven, Editor
hands clasped with her grandmother, my
feeds the gulls and pigeons, then turns to the fish
that glide along the bottom of the murky lake.
this winter, all the ducks have fled the lake,
yet rising with the whir of sprinklers, my daughter
rushes down the paved walkway to feed the fish
that rise as if summoned by her footsteps--the fish
burrow through floating plastic bottles that ring the lake,
and grandmother crumbles bagels she gives my daughter
to feed the fish while they count morning glories
beside the lake where she breaks bread with my daughter.
I HAD TO LEAVE A LITTLE GIRL (version)
you were the one who closed that door.
you were the one torn by your own guilt,
so tortured by your imaginings that you swore
we'd never lie together again, sharing sweat
in a bed that we knew was all too sweet
despite our duties and obligations; but we were
one with our passion which we had in moments,
in a time when that was all we knew was sure.
so don't think any less of yourself then or now:
your breast in my mouth, your legs around my waist,
my hands on your thighs, was that all just for show?
when we warmed each other by our bodies' glow
tangled in covers, the heat rising off my chest,
did you really think i could stay away from your pillow?
Geoffrey Philip, Miami