Ann Arbor Review


Gerald Clark
Lyn Lifshin
Paul B. Roth
Ndue Ukaj
Anne Babson
Laszlo Slomovits
Qinqin Huang
Duane Locke
Adhar Maheshwari
Shutta Crum
Odimegwu Onwumere
Anthony Seidman
Chris Lord
Running Cub
Amit Parmessur
John F. Buckley &
Martin Otto

Joanie Freeman
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits

Sonnet Mondal
Karyn M. Bruce
John Tustin
Jennifer Burd
Michael Gessner &
Daniel Davis

Martin Camps &
Anthony Seidman

Fred Wolven

Holly Day

M. J. Iuppa
John Grochalski
Catherine O'Brien
Joe Milford
Byron Matthews
Joseph Murphy
Dike Okoro

Steve Barfield






Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2012 Fred Wolven
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida


Fred Wolven, editor

Submissions via e-mail:




I have a secret:
a flower I hide
in my palm,
in my eye,
beneath my porch,
in my soilless heart.
She wilts, she blooms
in the shadows of my life.
She is nurtured and neglected
at my whim.
I reject her,
castigate her,
but she is in my blood,
she races my pulse,
her occasional mocking
deconstructs me.

I have a secret:
a flower I hide,
showing no one.
A racy object withering
in the boredom dark of my pocket,
blooming hot and lovely
when I bring her out
in the disguises of
The clouds gather
to admire her.
The rain shatters
in reflecting applause.

I have a secret:
a flower I hide
from those I love,
those I despise,
those I rely on
for comfort
and sustenance
and sanity.
She sits alone
atop a mountain.
Only the birds of prey
pass over,
their eyes shining in lusty hunger.
Her beauty marked by sorrow,
by weather,
but undiminished,
and especially

I have a secret:
a flower I hide
in my hideous hand;
she only blooms for me,
but then, not incrementally
in the shadows of my life,
dying dully
in her spectacular colors,
perfect petals,
wet weeping roots.
Sobbing in the corner
where I swept her.
I strangle her
with my need.

I have a secret:
a flower I hide.
The only flower I know
to bloom
in darkness,
to endure me,
to adore me.

I have a secret:
a flower I hide.
Cared about
but not cared for.
Almost open.
She won't show everything.
Leaning toward the sound
of rain,
of thunder,
crackling their promises
in the unattainable


The wolves.
The wolves come.
There they are, hidden by the falling snow,
treading certainly on soft sure pads,
just beyond the cloak of cluttered trees
that hang heavy with ice,
their silhouettes like dastard scarecrows.

The wolves.
The wolves quicken at my scent.
Teeth like yellow sickles.
Blood in their flaring nostrils.
Tongues lolling like carefree feet
dangling in the summer lake.
They are terrible and beautiful
and ready.

The wolves.
The wolves have always been coming.
Eyes like ice,
like scimitars,
like steel.
Eyes like frozen flint,
like dull nickels,
like murder.
Eyes that will find me.
And when the eyes find me
the wolves will slaughter the lamb
in my soul.


John Tustin, New Hyde Park, New York

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