Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Lyn Lifshin
Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Kufre Udeme
Michael Lewis-Beck
A. J. Huffman
Nugent Karhu
Fred Wolven
Shutta Crum
Fatmir Terziu
Steven Gulvezan
Kyle Hemmings
Adeeko Ibukun
Chris Cialdella
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu

Chris Lord
Dike Okoro
Jennifer Burd
Alisa Velaj
Joanie Freeman
Jeton Kelmendi
Richard Luftig
Dzekashu MacViban
Mike Berger
Al Ortolani

Ndue Ukaj
Alan Britt

Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Diane Giardi
Running Cub
 


 


 

 


 


 





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
------------------------------------------------


staff:
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

AFTER THE LATE STORMS

Walking alone, heavy with silent
argument, I came upon a creek
clogged with debris

and struggling against that rubbish
with a dozen fish the color
of creek, last year's

dry grasses, and my searching eyes
full of melted snow.  I silenced
the dispute by going in

for a better view.  The muscled water
looked up at me, shifted,
then relaxed--

the fish sliding downstream
to a calm green pool
to wait, to try again

later, the effort dissolving under
my gaze like the end
of a hard winter.



MIGRATION

She always got the work done--
always organized, practical,
taking care of us kids, the home,
nose to the grindstone,

good at everything--
she even had a knack
for making play look like work.
All the while she took

my life into her hands,
called it her own.  I've spent
years learning how to take it
back, swearing I'd never take

care of her.  Now, her memory
going, her grip on me gone,
a tenderness I've never felt
come pouring.

Today I lost count
of how many times she asked
what day it was and whether
she'd eaten breakfast.

We paid her bills,
filled the pill boxes, crossed
the calendar's blank squares
to the next time I'd visit.

At the door, we hugged again
and again.  And then--her ears,
still sharp, caught the calls of geese
just cresting the rooftop.

Their wingbeat, and the trusting
aim of their southward V
filled her, and for those moments,
her eyes were miracle-sky.

"Look--look!" wonder smiled
her whole body.  And through
loss, pain, and age, came
a gift I'd never seen before--

how she could fly like that.




Jennifer Burd, Ypsilanti, Michigan


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