Ann Arbor Review


Geoffrey Philip
Joseph McNair
Chris Lord
Coleman Barks
Dave Etter
Elisavietta Ritchie
Sam Cornish
Duane Locke
Karyn Wolven
Marisella Veiga
Michael D. Long
Running Cub
Joanie Freeman
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Steve Beaulieu
Gerald Clark
Mary E. Finlan
Fred Wolven


Whenever my young squash plants
put forth their large yellow blooms
I think not of warty crooknecks,
baseball-bat zucchinis or ratatouille,

but of your telling me how Aztec priests
ate the hearts of sacrificed virgins
with squash blossoms for garnish.
Your eyes gleamed as if you'd joined in.

You didn't say if they sautéed them first
or what powers the combination imparted.
But whenever we meet for lunch
I am careful to guard my cleavage.


For months you knew
you were dying yet

lingered until this season
of forsythia, daffodils.

Did you remember
Siberian winters,

corpses unburied
until the earth warmed?

Yet you cursed the heat
of our rampant summers,

the unredeemable
sadness of autumn.

You who no longer fear
a shift in the weather

did you think it kinder
we shuffle through

cherry blossoms,
magnolia petals,

rather than snowdrifts,
dead leaves?

Elisavietta Ritchie, Washington, D. C.


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