Ann Arbor Review: International Journal of Poetry

Issue Number 11

Ann Arbor Review

Southeastern Florida                                                                                                                 Ann Arbor Review


Lyn Lifshin
Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Kufre Udeme
Michael Lewis-Beck
A. J. Huffman
Nugent Karhu
Fred Wolven
Shutta Crum
Fatmir Terziu
Steven Gulvezan
Kyle Hemmings
Adeeko Ibukun
Chris Cialdella
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu

Chris Lord
Dike Okoro
Jennifer Burd
Alisa Velaj
Joanie Freeman
Jeton Kelmendi
Richard Luftig
Dzekashu MacViban
Mike Berger
Al Ortolani

Ndue Ukaj
Alan Britt

Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Diane Giardi
Running Cub






Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2013 Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida


Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:



what was it about that
dark filly, how did
Ruffian, because if
you know anything
about me you know
I've been obsessed by
her in a way I don't
understand.  And if you
don't know me, maybe
you can help me figure
out how this freak
horse took me hostage,
does.  She was huge
when I needed some
thing bigger than any
thing around me.  But
you know the story.
Someone I can't track
down said you look
for what you don't
have in the horse you
go for.  What made her
perfect, killed her, her
wild speed.  What did I
want from this beauty,
a tomboy, all business
some say, a real queen.
I'm still her captive.
But you, if you are
reading this and you
have some idea, some
clue, please help,
write me.


it was as if to make
pillow for her last
bed.  Her skin already
pulling over her bones
so her head was skull
like.  When she said
her hair cut was kill-
ing her, it stung like
when she ordered
"Death by Chocolate."
It seems terrible,
what happens to the
body, the perfect
teeth letting go as if
in a hurry to get
somewhere else
while lines become
graves around the
mouth and forehead,
trenches darkness
fills.  This broken
body, once in 7 inch
heels darting up
Beacon Hill so fast no
one could keep up
with her


almost daily, crossing
the park, hear them,
background noise.  Not
for me today, not for
my baby.  Not this time,
not yet.  Yesterday with
trucks backed up I
wondered if there was
someone saying it will
be ok.  Maybe it will.  Or
maybe some organs are
shutting down.  Or the
one under the mound of
sheet is already dead.  I
wondered if a car collided
with another no one can
still drive.  This time it is
not me, forehead scalped,
over 100 stitches.  This
time I can go on to ballet,
past the dogs in the park
nuzzling empty cups,
buds swelling.  This time


if the tangerine doesn't
fill the house with thick
sweetness.  If you put
your hands over your
ears one more time
when I'm talking.  If
there's another month
of wanting to sleep all
day, the cat the warmest
sweet thing I can imagine.
If this damn rain doesn't
let up, I am going to
have to rewrite the story
you've got in your head
about us and I don't
think you will like
the ending


when it's behind my knees
you'd have to fall to the
floor, lower your whole
body like horses in a field
to smell it.  White Rose
Bulgarian rose.  I think of
sheets I've left my scent in
as if to stake a claim for
someone who could never
care for anything alive.
This Bulgarian rose,
spicy, pungent, rose 16h
birthday party dress, rose
lips, nipples.  If you won't
fall to your knees, at least,
please, nuzzle, like those
horses, these roses, somewhere

Lyn Lifshin
, Vienna, Virginia
                     Niskayuna, New York


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