Poetry - Issue 02 | December 2008

Two Poems by Anna Evans


Cast off in this hotel I’m wired. The skies
post interference; lies become the truth.
We overlapped our hours like kissing mouths;
now weeks divide our bodies. Hypnotized
inside the blizzard globe, I recognize
ourselves in every snowdrift’s negative
capability. I can’t get south
today. I make truth over into lies,
protecting truth. It was like this, like that.
As in the museum, the transferred drawing caught
our eyes: how subjects sensed the changes of
angle but lost the depths. I wore your hat
to leave the airport. On it, snowflakes fought
the drive to merge, but melted. Yes, it’s love.

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About the author

Anna Evans, a British citizen residing in New Jersey, earned her MFA from Bennington College. Conversant in both French and German, Anna has traveled widely in Europe and the Far East, has seen a bullfight in Madrid, and snorkeled off the coast of Malaysia.  Anna is the current editor of the Raintown Review, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Harvard Review, Atlanta Review, Rattle, and Measure. Her chapbooks, Swimming and Selected Sonnets, can be obtained from Maverick Duck Press.

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