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

Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:


a year ago, letters like glass
thrown from the 17th floor
on to the car’s windshield
you’re idling in back of. Or
you are the car on ice going
into a spin out, other finger
on the wheel you’ve felt
jerked into gutters and
curbs, banged metal  on
metal, a guard rail or twp
in your mouth,  branchs
splintering, you’re jolted,
throttled by a twist out of
where you were headed.
When your shoulder merges
with the garage door’s wood,
a silk scarf, wedged in the
middle of could separate and
leave metal with only scars you
could  feel with the skin of
your cheek with the lights
out like terror


takes over, a hostile
sputter of ice. The last
months caught in panes,
like a suicide note left
crumpled in rain the
dampness blurs the
last 3 lines of. Jewel
weed’s camouflaged, a
snake corpse caught
in a hiss.  Scenes
from rooms that don’t
exist haunt, a flash
back to the amnesiac
slammed with years after
his car exploded. Berries in
the cedar, blood. The one
color in the snow moon,
hunger moon


it’s over a year since
she crawled under  boxes,
dived over sneakers and
sandals into sheets
of dust. I wonder about
prints on the bathroom
glass, wintergreen mints
near the bed. open,
but the foil closed back.
sweaters in dusky light
much father away, they
report no hostilities yet.
It’s like waiting for legal
action after my sister
said almost the same
words then got her guns
poised. placed bombs in the
driveway and the what
was always egging to break
out does, after 150.00an hour.
Having the flu’s an excuse to lie
back in pillows, not feel guilty
for moving slowly as it
plodded thru oil or sand.
Snow mounds melt
and freeze. It’s 13 months ago
she still tried to bring me ice cream
in bed. I burrow deeper in
quilts as rhododendrons curl
tight as cigarettes, the first word
I said at six months, “ciggiie,”
and then latter “ciggies”

Lyn Lifshin, Vienna, Virginia and Niskayana, New York

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