Ann Arbor Review


Paul B. Roth
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Lana Bella
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Ali Znaidi
Lyn Lifshin
Ann Christine Tabaka
Silvia Scheibli
Fahredin Shehu
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomovitz
Rajnish Mishra
Keith Moul
Eddie Awusi
Andy N
Running Cub
Sanjeev Sethi

Alex Ferde
Deji W. Adesoye
W. M. Rivera
Shantanu Siuli
Duane Locke

Jennifer Burd
Violeta Allmuca

Fred Wolven
Michael Lee Johnson

Aneek Chatterjee

Richard Gartee
John Grey

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 48 years all together....

Francis Ferde

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Running Cub
Fred Wolven


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A good husband makes a good wife. John Florio

It’s about love: how her fingers like magic wands turn
the mundane macaroni I bring from the dirtiest road
into a delicious, serene dish. It’s about dirt: how she
grimaces to stop the devil from entering her soul
if people put their dirty feet on her bed. How peace
and bliss even in the dirtiest city
is when every nook of her body smells of Lux.
And isn’t this cute: she can exist without herself,
but not without me. She can perish alone, but
not after me. Sometimes she takes the roughness
of my ears to be her lullaby. Sometimes she mistakes
me for her deaf grandmother and speaks loud and
I have to remind her that the ears and eyes of
her cruel mother-in-law grow on our walls.
That she doesn’t know what makes her beautiful
makes her more beautiful. And it’s about being oneself:
when we are out, she doesn’t drink much because
she cannot digest public toilets. While she has no
time for time she’s always ready to give herself to others
even though she ends up hurt many times. She hates
hospitals but is a great doctor. And how she believes
more in filmy failure than in real, successful adults.
I know she would lose her neck fighting for the mangalsutra
uniting us. Her secret mantras are to shield me
and pray for my lazy tongue. If our lucky bamboos
become yellow she takes the blame and is ready to
improve when I’m at fault. On the streets, I am
her crowd; it’s my duty not to crowd my heart.

To think that one day it will end and we might
never know each other again.


     There is honour among thieves. English Proverb

A torrid morning with an unseen cawing and the horn of a taxi.
And I watching.
A young woman on the other side,
her eyes like marbles of innocence.

She examines the red bougainvillea hanging over the wall.
The window of the owner is wide open.
She puts her basket down
and breaks a huge branch off as if it belongs to her.

“It’s mine!” she seems to say. “It’s mine! It’s mine!”
She doesn’t look at me,
and picking up her basket, she resumes her way.

The red balloons look suddenly pale,
while the branch looks so good in her hand.

I watch in amazement as she goes down the road
and another taxi horns
and the crow flies away.


Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius

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