Three Poems by Ann E. Wallace

catherine hawkins
Artwork by Catherine Hawkins


The penny tiles
invite me to sink
to their cool surface,

black and white,
the floor is an easy
decision, but I wonder

how to lay myself
down, willingly, carefully,
too strong to crumple, yet

not strong enough for
15 steps back and up
into bed, knowing I will

be back and weary
too soon, so I ease
to one knee, two, settle,

stretch and pull knees
in, curled safe, hands
tucked under my head,

and quietly await
your return.




I didn’t think you would be
able to   I wait for the next words
    handle the chaos
I let out my breath. She is
Even I get um    dizzy, with people
and spinning   and
running, so you...

If I had the skills I would
   not hesitate    to join but then,
she’s right, the spins would
          set in   and would linger
                  long after the game.

It surprises me that
     at eleven she worries about the vertigo,

while I was worried that she
          just think
                   I’m bad at basketball.


A Shadow of Rachmaninoff

On the wall there is a shadow
of Rachmaninoff, and in the air an echo
of Chekhov, of Kandinsky. The markings
of those who have come and gone

ever present an ocean and more
from motherland, where, here,
Moscow becomes a chronotope
of another place, another time,

of suffering beauty, condensing wisdom
into art that is breathed in still, now, and out
with the vodka, and with the light of dawn.



Ann E. Wallace writes of life with illness, motherhood, and other everyday realities. Her work has recently appeared in The Capra Review, Juniper, The Literary Nest, Eunoia Review, Rogue Agent, The Same, and other journals. She lives in Jersey City, NJ where she teaches English at New Jersey City University. She is on Twitter @annwlace409.

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