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:
FLATBED LESSON
Pop dropped the old flatbed
into second. We'd been haying
the Morris place when the rain hit.
I was sitting center seat with
Andy next to the door.
Pop was saying how it was about time
to learn to drive. Andy said,
he supposed it true.
Pop asked if I knew the first
thing about driving hay trucks
and I got a swagger about me and said
there wasn't much
I couldn't figure out at fourteen.
Pop slapped his leg with his glove.
Andy laughed
too hard, so I began to suspect
a plot. Pop wouldn't
let up. He started showing me
everything on the controls:
lights, horn, wipers,
then he goes on with gas, brake, clutch.
He asks if I think I got it,
and he swings into our back-forty
and gives her the gas. We bounce
across the cattle rail,
my head popping the back window. He says,
Andrew, I can make it from here,
and then he just steps out the door
backwards like some kind of
space walking astronaut.
I lunged for the wheel
and turned for help. Andy
jumped too, rolling
to a stop in the pasture,
wet and muddy and grinning.
PINK LADIES
I sit in the hospital cafeteria.
Pink ladies from the auxiliary flutter
through the aisles like pastel birds.
Each one has a song.
To my right a fountain sprays into a small courtyard
dotted with begonias: red, pink and white.
Peaceful colors. It is supper time, yet
the sun slants with misgivings.
Pop is in his room, wired for tremors,
waiting stabilization before they cut.
I try the glass door to the courtyard,
but it is locked.
I shake it once for effect.
A sparrow rises from the small dogwood,
and disappears over the chapel roof.
Shadows edge towards the fountain.
I think of the darkenss
below Pop's bed, the night
curling through his shoelaces.
Al Ortolani, Lawrence, Kansas