JoAnn Anglin

 

Photo courtesy of Ken Larsen

JoAnn Anglin – joannpen@comcast.net - has been published mostly in Sacramento-area publications, including The Sacramento Anthology: 100 Poems and, of course, Rattlesnake Review. She was an early member of Los Escritores del Nuevo Sol [Writers of the New Sun], and is included in their anthology, Voices of the New Sun/Voces del Nuevo Sol. Her poems are included on the web site: www.escritoresdelnuevosol.com
She has been a featured poet at Northern California venues and a poet-teacher in the public schools and at Shriners Children’s Hospital.


 

JoAnn Anglin Poems

Chalk

It seems that somehow you are gone
and yet I see the outline drawn
of your presence, a rough shape
where your body then was warm:
in my bed, my house, my arms.

Vapor now where flesh filled space
Dematerialized, no trace
except in some reflected light
a shallow print of your aspect
where you once breathed, moved, slept.

Gone: eyelash, hair, fingernails
and fainter telling small details
What’s left: blunt contour of a corpse
clumsily echoed muscle, bone --
a shadowed edge, the substance gone.

Oh, I can look for evidence
in weather, tea leaves, hope’s pretense
in ragged line on asphalt night
in faded, smeared remembered pain
to be dissolved in time by rain.
 


My Father Saw a Badger

He sits in silence for
thirty minutes, lost in
internal wandering,
notices a key to
memory’s cupboard.
Reaches, drops it,
seizes it again.
          My father took me along
          to deliver a wagonload of hay.
          We rode home in cold breath silence,
          on the bumpy wooden bench seat.
          He slowed the horses,
          quietly said:
                    “Jim, look there.”
          He pointed outward slowly,
          not enough to signal
          the horses to turn.
          In the bank across the creek,
          a badger,
          furiously scooping through mud.

My father’s eyes, so often
focused inward now, shine --
again the five-year-old boy
leaning into his father’s
side, the rough jacket, the
smell of pipe smoke and
whiskers and air, scent of
the shallow water, the
endless stubbled acres,
the fierce furry digging into
thick dark mud.




 

 

 

 

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