when i was a child i would spend South Texas evenings throwing myself with reckless abandon into the gnarled branches of a waiting magnolia. above the pecan falls and beyond the waiting call of my mother’s dinner bell. all to sit for a moment with those sweet flowers in theContinue Reading
I saw your face, and felt the gravity of the moment. The ghost inside echoed the shift, recording the tangent in my course. Your words, your touch, and your spirit nudged my bearing. Tracking left and right, I found no center where once it guided. Bending to the mass ofContinue Reading
There was Red Jaws sitting on the couch, mom’s half-brother, while we waited for his tale. He took a minute, easing into the story like a slow drink of whiskey. I ain’t drunk today he said, still too early but there has been many a time when me and aContinue Reading
Sunlight touches my face at dawn A butterfly lands on my hand Bees kiss wildflowers on the lawn Crimson cardinals present their demands The last glow of sunset reveals a doe and fawn Fireflies twinkle in dewy evening starlight Crickets and bullfrogs sing their soulful tune Moon-eyed owl keeps vigilContinue Reading
“Really Loud and Partially Deaf” dedicated to my Husband, Army Veteran Mark Batton My wife brings up a basket of laundry. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. I know she despises folding laundry. It’s a load of towels. I grab one. Warm and fresh-smelling. I fold it inContinue Reading
The following poem from Anna Laura Reeve’s debut book of poetry, Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility (Belle Point Press), was a finalist for the Ron Rash Award and was first published in Broad River Review. Flower Moon One way to light myself after darkness is toContinue Reading
In Anna Laura Reeve’s 2023 debut collection Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility (Belle Point Press), readers will be transported from the domesticity of everyday life to the wonder of the flora and fauna in the balds of Southern Appalachia. Mothers will not be able to read the firstContinue Reading
Hot blooded rose: its per- fumed crimson bed – boudoir for a drunk and dizzying bee amorous and swollen be fore it sped in grainy dark where the sun used to be. Pixilated grains materialize in the likeness of my mother, then ten, swaddling a rose with tenderest of eyesContinue Reading
Many thanks to Appalachia Bare for offering to publish the poem “Little Margaret.” It’s about an old friend, the late James Elton “Jim” McMillan, Jr. While I was attending Emerson College in Boston in 1969-70, I lived in a house in Newton Lower Falls, Massachusetts, with Jim and his wifeContinue Reading
Fatback frying in an old well-seasoned cast iron skillet soup beans bubbling Silver Queen corn with a plate of sliced tomatoes and onions on Mrs. Vashon’s table where we sit for hours as she tells stories of the past. Red Spruce trees swaying in the soft wind whispering secrets toContinue Reading
