INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Paul B. Roth
Jennifer Burd &
Rose Mary Boehm
Michael D. Long
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
The horses proceed down the river path.
There is a place to ford.
The waters low enough.
The willows overhanging.
A vast hotel on the far bank
Full of mercenaries and warlords
Speaking languages we've never heard,
A rasp of brutal xylophones.
You can no more drown in this river
Than you can flounce into the drawing room
Where the dictator is drinking
Sour wine with his retinue.
We trundle in all of the clothes
we can fit on our bodies.
It is not winter yet. An old man
wears dozens of flannel robes.
Mud underfoot and the soldiers
shouting, cannon being dragged
by straining bodies. All the horses
were slaughtered months ago. Hunger
travels this road. If anyone knows
where we are headed, he keeps
his mouth sewed with black thread. Huts smoke in the distance,
crows caw from the rusted
belfreys of pine. Their cries like
shabby black elbows. Night
suddenly. A pox of stars
and small fires splaying a cruel orange
slap print on exhausted faces. There were dogs once
and sometimes snared hares, now
we gnaw our own fingers,
hug sleep to us like gristle.
They say a blood moon
means a change of fortune. Our bloody footprints
will bloom in snow like miraculous flowers. Nobody talks
of calendars or the old occupations.
Families forget the names they were born with.
All the roads
cram with this progress.
Eyes and mouths hauling a sack of wants. Old women tell
of fig trees, cool water, sheep on a mountainside.
They bless themselves. The gravel of their legends
haunts some of us. Others plant
one foot after another.
Joan Colby, Elgin, Illinois