Five Poems by Anne Archer

 

Stories

 

We hitch ourselves to stories, at least that’s

what I thought last night, I mean this morning

at two, the moon a lump over the water-

meadow, waning and blowsy, light

years away from bed, the moon who

comes and goes as she pleases, a mistress

on the dark side of her prime, still working

the system.  This morning I got up, went

outside, walked around the house just to

catch a glimpse.  I was naked and cold.  I

could tell by the ambient light she was

somewhere but the sky was empty.  Through

the window I could hear my husband snore, flat

on his back with our cat and the moon in his arms.

 

 

On reading frank: sonnets

 

Poems sharp-toothed as the pit bull

that opened me up last August, so sudden

the attack there was no before or after

just a lunge, lunge, lunge and blood but

little pain, its absence as shocking as a maw

of teeth making a bracelet of bites

missing tendons and veins by a gasp,

even the dog got ahead of itself and

let go too soon.  Did the owner yell

stop or down or roll over and over and

over?  I only recall that he said I’m so, so,

so sorry as I staggered the hundred yards

home, something red winding its way like

a ribbon down forearm to wrist to dirt road.

 

 

Rise

 

I’ve heard of those

brought back to life,

many against their will,

 

in defiance of gravity

and the voices of their dead

begging them to stay, not

 

to rise, surgere, not

to resume a before at best

quotidian, mundane.

 

Why would Lazarus

bandaged, foul-smelling,

have chosen to rise,

 

to have been changed,

utterly transformed,

different, stranger

 

to himself and his sisters,

Lazarus, whose resurrection

only led to another death?

 

 

Murmuration

 

Starlings angle, fly

into the sun,

their underbellies

lit

 

for one flash

second, enough

to make

me a believer

 

in beauty

if not truth

or God, no need

in light

 

of a perfect

explanation

involving physics,

camber, flight.

 

 

We never

 

see it coming, blinkered as we always are by what we call,

with all of language on our tongue, its possibilities, in spite

of metaphor, synecdoche, common sense, love. We turn to cliche,

that freefall, so even as we hurtle downward we remember

but never in time that we are earthbound and gravity always

spins us head over heels towards a halt and a tumble and broken

ribs and damaged spleen and perforated lungs and a battered heart.

Anne Archer (aka Archer Lundy) is a musician and poet who lives on unceded Algonquin Territory near Sharbot Lake, Ontario, Canada.  She is the author of three books of poetry: ICH HEISSE CLARA (Alien Buddha Press, 2021), FROM THE FRONTENACS (Woodpecker Lane Press, 2022), and, hot off the press, EMMALINE/EVANGELINE (Woodpecker Lane, 2023).  Her poetry appears in various journals including The Eunoia Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Pinhole, The Ravens Perch, Sledgehammer Lit, Yolk., Juked, Poetry Pause (a poem-a day feature sponsored by The League of Canadian Poets), and Autumn Sky Poetry.