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  • Writer's pictureAnne Mitchell

Two Abcedarians

What is a poem?

A poem breathes quietly in an abecedarian’s

basement, dark, like the black lagoon some

creature in a little cart with wheels

determined to mine the field of dandelions beyond dogma,

edged out by an easel of chartreuse echeveria. A poem is a

field guide for the heart to fish through fathoms of

gristled gut for the scent of geranium, perhaps

horse cafe where loss is harb-boiled.

Indica blue in two puffs-ahhh. I am here.

Jujubes come

knocking, I see through forests of kelp,

long BBQ forks poke through a scene soft as linoleum.

Moon salutations make sense of

new ritual, release that nagging nemesis of time-you cannot

outwit the oligarchs. Oregano-scented fingers and otters

pray from a plateau that is not of poison pink peppermint, instead

quiet queues on the step pyramids of Quintana Roo.

Rub rabbit ears and words

snap. A shift of sandalwood smoke,

tresses of hair are trivialized when

Ultraman’s silver cape flies onto the page and ukuleles rain song over

volcanoes that swallow VW bugs. Crack your

Whip-this poem is smoke from the genie’s bottle, an

XL abstract all yours to swim with at 20 fathoms with

Yellow Tang to a one pew

Zoom Church, Zelensky at the pulpit-I am here.

Lesson in risk aversion

All at attention

begs the brain

clinically concussed.

Did drama

edge out


Get a grip and give

hours of honing back

intelligence from inertia.

Jungle gyms are out.

Kickboxing, not.

Lay still,

meditate. Tend to your

neck’s needs.

Open your eyes,



Remember your body,

susceptible to ski


ubiquitous peer pressure.

Veer out of the trees,

wait for reason to

xamine risk-

yell NO to jeopardous

Zest, Zeal.


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