INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Paul B. Roth
Jennifer Burd &
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2013
Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
Silver Grey Fox
Owasco's shore reaches so far out
this winter that only crystallized webs of hollow ice where shallow water
used to be stretch their bubble filled and wafer-thin bodies between black
and sulphur colored rock. The crunching echo of your footsteps of fins
against the sides of these rocks sounds awkward.
Perched on your shoulder, wind
whispering in your ear the same notes you once heard a white throated
sparrow call to its mate in western Maine convinces you the one you await
has returned even though you're not the kind of person who'd necessarily
notice shadows on snow without apparent sunlight. Eventually you
accept how no one's returned and yet suffer the words used to understand it.
Grown older than you remember, you prick yourself
and the little that's left of your blood spilling into gutters down the
hilly roads of your childhood dissolves in a clear glass of water on the
nightstand along with your grandfather's false teeth. Your lips
without speaking quiver the way a knife hits its target at the thought.
You keep to yourself, your
blood lullabied to sleep by the silence.
After snowy headlights blotch the hotel lobby's
ignored fica, fern and spider plant shadows, and its elevator goes up before
coming down, noise filled streets are muffled by slush swirling round the
mushy hubs of the warm bus ride home at whose last stop you forgot to get
Since sight itself has become a sort of
blindness, when you do get off, you walk as far and as fast as you can
without once looking where you're going. So embarrassed are you for
missing what you never had.
Later that night you're discovered where
the aqua tint of snow around your head sunk in a snowbank's deep bootprint
resembles the halo your long walk home had you hoping you would find.
You cannot empty your emptiness
enough. Becoming cattle stuffing grass in your mouth after drought
ending rains might be one way. Ambling around on all fours, content to
stand, except to sleep or feel that it's about to rain, might move you to
some more brilliant kind of ignorance. Who really knows?
Although enclosures may confound you and open spaces tend to lose you, other
hands trying to soothes your feelings sting with flashes off the sharpness
of their butcher knives. So, what's the difference?
Along, mesmerized by your own skin that
comes back to your after covering the soft notes oboes back-stroke over
string passages in Mahler's 4th, you forget it no longer fits and so hangs
in baggy wrinkles from your cheekbones and over each hand trying to gesture
the way a dolphin's dorsal fin cleaves to the edge of each creating and
You try recalling your name before you
existed, before headless you wiggled in your own hands, but cannot.
The emptier you feel the more fulfilled everything around you becomes.
Walls are walked through, waters upon, and the sky in your heart opening up
a new portal in your bloodstream overflows with tall laughter the way
summer's spreading yucca blossoms white.
Paul B. Roth, Fayetteville, New York