Ann Lovett
Sometimes they come undone
crossword clues,
seven down, stumblebum,
eight across, lascivious. Try
chiaroscuro, the light of god
striking Paul like a club
on the road to Damascus,
his speechless tongue, his
blinded eyes. Try Zeppelinistic,
great Hindenburgs that burst
into flames, float away
untethered. For my mother
the names for common things
slipped away first, bits of paper
down a stream: canister, refrigerator,
vacuum. Ash of old conversations
settling on an unopened book.
Then watch, teeth, meat.
Mother. Daughter. The last
to go, my father’s name, a final
silence unwinding its unlined
sheet. Now I chant my own
to hear its sound, assemble
language into a word-shuttered
house. Murmur. Sullen.
Fist. I nail them to the page
one by one.
About the writer:
Ann Lovett is a poet and visual artist living in Ashland, Oregon. She holds an MFA in Printmaking from Tyler School of Art and an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. Recent publications include the Bellevue Literary Review, Arkana, Wolfpack Press, Gyroscope Review, Shawangunk Review, and an anthology, The Writers Studio at 30.
Image: Untitled from the Pattern Drawings Series by Ann Lovett. Mixed media image on panel (digital pigment prints with encaustic medium (beeswax) and image transfer). No size specified. No completion date specified. By permission.
