by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Jun 12, 2021 | Galileo Press
There is a corridor of lightthrough the pines, lint from the Spanish Moss.There is the fallen sunlike ice and the twit of hidden birdsin our common backyards,snakes threading the needles.I walk the block pastKrogers with its exhausted wiveshovering over bins of frozen...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Dec 11, 2020 | Galileo Press
Somewhere beyond the bounds of sleepmy bones undressed, rising from their fleshto become this selfless, falling dust. It was then I wanted earswith which to hear the familiar criesof those children building me. And of course I had no eyesonly this unfailing bandage of...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Oct 1, 2020 | Galileo Press
Poem of Mercy No one poem is enough. Noone poem contains the mercyI seek, the forgiveness. There are nowords that can approachthe tufts of fine black hairon the backs of doctor’s handsas he dialed my home that nightfrom one of the side rooms,then choked, looking...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Sep 3, 2020 | Galileo Press
Conservation I write to you on the stationeryof the chairman of the board of a defunct company.Tell you how I’m tryingto assemble my life with the simple logicof electronic components. Everythingcomes apart in my hands, I can’tcomprehend schematics. What...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Aug 13, 2020 | Galileo Press
In 1982, Lynne Cawood Howard wrote the perfect coronavirus poem. The Miner’s Son My father died in his fortieth winterwhen the black scars that were his lungsgave in with one final breath.Though I have not reached thirty, I wake up coughing and hear the rattle...
