INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Richard Gartee
Fahredin Shehu
Steve Barfield
Silvia Scheibli
Laszlo Slomovitz
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Sodiq O. Alabi
Stephen Sleboda
Alan Britt
Aneek Chatterjee
John Grey
Michael Lee Johnson
Robert Nisbet
Jennifer Burd
Alica Mathias
Roo Bardookie
Gale Acuff
Alex Ferde
Fred Wolven
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2022 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 52 years all together....
...
------------------------------------------------
staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
When I
was 17, her eyes resembled champagne scorpions,
ones living inside Tampa clapboard walls,
deadly stings for such small creatures.
Her lips resembled some form of melon, orange or green,
I don’t recall, but they released an elixir similar
to pomegranate feathers shading the agate eyes
of Vermeer’s girl in a red hat.
Her hips had teeth.
I’d have shifted gears,
but I was on automatic—
silver Chevy, Bel Air with power steering,
4-barrel, marginal AC, the works.
Anyway, her neck sizzled scarlet fever
with all its drips and drops.
And since I’d never had scarlet fever
before, I was cooked.
So, now at 57, I believe that too much attention gets paid
to the gravitational pull of rogue suns, black holes, lavish
moons, and not nearly enough to necks.
The clock chimes two avocados
before the hour of three
in the afternoon.
It is three in the afternoon
when reason nuzzles my hand the way
a tuxedo housecat seeks affection.
Around the black moons
of my lover’s eyes
jade rings quiver.
The bandoneon loosens
her red satin gloves,
finger by finger,
then folds them
across my exposed ribs,
unbuttons her white blouse,
then wriggles gabardine trousers
down both barracuda thighs.
The bandoneon and I are engaged.
We wear our viridian rings
of solidarity like penumbras
orbiting the black moons
of our eyes
FOUR OLIVES
(For a Mojave Immanentist)
We enjoy each other’s company because weboth long to blossom & bloom a better world,
but when we can’t, we get cranky like two vagabonds
hunkered below razor wire with New Testament leaves
reeking of melaleuca beneath a cardboard box soddened
by yesterday’s rainwater.
Which explains why we always order four olives with dinner
Alan Britt, Reister, Maryland