Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2016
AAR history note: in print 1967 - 1980. Irregular publications 1980 - 2004. As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....
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These days the vineyards boast
only the dullest brown stalks of their
Let’s consider it a hope, a re-gathering of essence,
not a withholding.
Still, the view stops me—
opens and promises with one vast sky.
The way a thought might seem intact,
indefensible and perfect where it sits
atop the knobby spine and gnarl of such potential bloom.
Still, I wait for the unpress of sky and light
to hand over what I am rustling for.
That desire might be an answer.
That what was considered a given
won’t have to be understood as a gift.
Which is to say we will have to rewrite
every single question.
Yes, I am asking you vines.
You latent drunkards.
You promisers of delight and revel.
Will you blossom, will you throw off your
winter death? Cast your spell?
I dare you.
This time, I want you to choose the verb.
It has to be willed, not afraid. Whatever
my looking—that cross into, so sought,
so hush—you return. This alive is spelled
So here I joy but later there will be ashes.
And I will have to rowboat myself across.
You said this, pointing out my shipwreck.
This morning I am a word that repeats itself.
I am a thing that pours. But I am keeping. Here
is the book of me, my ripped page.
Unhearing does work but it takes some kindling.
Your cavalier is my matchbook. Do not pretend
you haven’t wanted to test my phosphorous, my
strike and blaze.
Oh, yes, this quiet.
Watchmaking my hush, my furious.
Michelle Bailat-Jones, St. Legier, Switzerland
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