INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
'Deji W. Adesoye
Paul B. Roth
David Ishaya Osu
Miguel A Bernao Burrieza
Lazlo Slomovits & Jennifer Burd
Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Michael D. Long
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2014
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
Silver Grey Fox
ON THOSE SUNDAYS
we ate our breakfast
with the comic section wide open on the kitchen table
both in our pajamas, hair uncombed.
We’d shout together when Little Orphan Annie announced
“Leapin’ Lizards” and looked out at us with her round, vacant eyes.
Or we’d cry when Sandy, her raggamuffin dog, was chased by street punks.
Every Sunday Dick Tracy saved the day in his yellow detective hat
and while corn-pipe smokin’ Mammy Yokum hill-billied across the page
with her “good night Irene punches,” Daisy Mae spooned over
Li’l Abner until he finally smartened up and married her.
I’d cheer when my mother read Little Lulu, the loopy-curled girl
who fought boys and bullies and won, but never mussed her hair.
And I remember Brenda Starr with her long, red waves and low-cut
Years later, when I could read the comic strip myself, I found out
that those steamy romances of hers were never part of my mother’s reading.
For each character she had a voice that swooped and swirled into my ears,
and I would put my finger on top of hers as she pointed to the words,
her red-painted fingernails gliding into those small bubble-like clouds
above everyone’s head. To my father's displeasure, I would beg her
to read Dennis the Menace
twice because he loved root beer
and terrorizing babysitters. And we’d laugh so loudly reading Marmaduke
that my dad would leave the table for the peace and quiet of the living
It’s what we did. Together. On those Sundays
when I was a kid and I loved her.
Karyn M. Bruce, Biscayne Park,