JoAnn Anglin
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EVERYONE I'VE KNOWN By JoAnn Anglin Everyone I knew, I still know. The boy kissing my 16-year-old neck in the dark car, on a Friday night. The girl in fifth grade: we argue the difference between killed and died, me talking dictionary; her, of her brother in Korea. I recall the narrow-eyed woman counting my quarters for the Saturday matinee movie, the blonde second cousin from Montana, stopping on his way through town. Ex-husbands, ex-bosses. Others who were lovers for no good reason, except themselves. Those who could have been. I have paid paperboys, milkmen, doctors. Talked with neighbors, uncles who died of drink or hard work. Drivers of buses, sellers of ice cream, waiters. I wear them all, woven in the warp and weft of a coarse winter cape: comforts, burdens, space fillers. Nearing death, my mother-in-law saw people at the foot of her bed, some she knew. Had they come from the cloak of her life? Giving off welcome or dread? In whose thick garment do I dwell? |
Photographs by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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JESUS GOES SWIMMING By JoAnn Anglin The little boys are learning to dive. Jesus could dive easy, they say. He could go off the high dive like nothing. And if he wanted, he could stay on top of the water, and just slide across. Heck, one says, he could even walk right across the swimming pool. And the other says, He could even walk on his hands across the pool. And then the first one says, Actually, he could even stand on one hand on the water. And there he is. I can see it. The boys go on to talk about penises and baseball, dogs and quesadillas. But me? I'm still at the swimming pool, seeing Jesus standing on the water, on one hand. Waving. This poem was first published in WTF #8, Autumn, 2010 |
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LAY LOW THIS DAY By JoAnn Anglin Lay the hound of your worry to rest, settled with strokes of your nurturing hand. Give yourself to the cool pantry floor, at one with the preserved. Lay up provisions, but move quietly, without waste, in your gather of space and necessity. Lay the orderly quilt on your industry, let its weight slow the measure of your waking. This is not the day to ascend. Place your coins on the shelf, your shoes in the corner. Partially open the curtains. Do not answer bells that summon. Come only to your own pumping heart, the deeper currents of the earth that call you to rest, to lay low. |
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MORALS By JoAnn Anglin The world is not your evidence. Amorality is rife. Picture Big Macs, mountain lions, capitalism. They do not care enough to hate you. They grow strong through weakness. Yours. Every time. You sweet little piece of survival. Without or with us, life parts grow brittle, their breaking a surprise. Why? The world is not lazy, but easily bored. And tries things: Earthquakes, tsunamis. Gravity as indifferent joke. We want to make it our yo-yo, or a toy train with a tiny conductor and engines. We promise love for their minute perfections, but our wandering attention makes them crash. Casually, we put them back. We play our games called Success, called Win or Lose. And wait to see what happens. |
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REQUEST By JoAnn Anglin Ask for the greenest lettuce. Also, the unpolished stone, something unfinished, it opens to you. Lean back for appraisal. Ask the wise man. He won't answer but turns the question back to you inside out, so you must guess at the pattern. Ask why the sky waits, clouds laden as if they cannot bear to release, until they do. That's why. Once started, it cannot stop. It gives what you ask, but more. More! You regret the request. Ask out your neighbor, ask for a few minutes of accidental touches, awkward bumps, delicious sound of meaningless words falling unasked on you both, a spring shower. |
 JoAnn Anglin |
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