by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | May 1, 2022 | Galileo Press
Waiting, one feels timelike space the way one speaks of a tree,meaning not, as here in this yard,the fat trunk of a beech that bulgesbefore its branches beginto branch — meaning rather the loss we hideby counting up: Up, the way the tree grows,or the way we...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Feb 6, 2022 | Galileo Press
There was a knock and then there wasn’t.There was a door and then there wasn’t.There was a knock, a door….I follow your footprints across the wet grass.They lead to a river black as anthracite.And a boat without oars. Sleep is a desert that lets me...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Nov 27, 2021 | Galileo Press
for John and Joe The blue-grey steeples of the pines,the lake’s cold oval: our perception of these shapesmakes us particularly human.Like tourists living on the shoreof what really matters, we can lean backand say “These clouds are marble...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Nov 7, 2021 | Galileo Press
Ok. It’s Halloween. There’s a knock on the door and it’s your lover. Only it’s not your lover, it’s a short, fat kid wanting candy. But he knows your name and it’s not your lover, it’s your best friend. And she’s with...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Oct 10, 2021 | Galileo Press
He often imagined kissing her in the rain,in one of those romantic triumphs over adversity.Reclining with his back to the earth, he stares intothe sky as it plummets into itself; he decides the sky is his pieta, a woman in a blue robeswaddling the dark space of her...
