Ann Arbor Review


Shutta Crum
Paul B. Roth
Laszlo Slomovits
Duane Locke
Felino Soriano
Chris Lord
Jerry Blanton
Carmen Firan
Amelia Makinano
Connie Stadler
Fred Wolven
Duane Locke
Tolu Ogunlesi
Running Cub
Joanie Freeman
Gerald Clark
Karyn M. Wolven
Holly Day
Dike Okoro
Fred Wolven


Charcoal point
Waits for the line
Of her cheek to appear.

In the conference room
The only thing that moves
Are the trees.

Sirens no longer stay outside
Of the thickly-settled doors.
There is no end to the glass in the windows.

As she turns her head
The curves sink and rise
Into profile.

Resting along the concave of her neck
The down of a gray dove
Refuses to yield to the foreground.


Marriage will be
One of the horses lacking.
Failure will go to the paddocks
Jasper guarding dirt
Airs above the ground.
Lutine, white, after throwing her body
Into twists blackly rising.
Buggy waiting in my perfect proportions.
Soap rings on my arms.
Closets full of husband disappointments.
Petals fall away from a bird transfixed
Upwardly staring at its wings.


We lean into each metal curve
Interlocking, with one space
Left for a child.

Over bridges
Over black waters we ride
My breath is in a ghetto.


Amelia Arcamone-Makinano, Queens, New York



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