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...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Jul 24, 2020 | Galileo Press
Check out Alison Turner’s review of Julia’s latest book: https://www.barrelhousemag.com/onlinelit/2020/01/wendell-cometothex
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Jul 7, 2020 | Galileo Press
How can someone from half way across the world and growing up in a completely different culture assemble imagery in such a way that you understand completely what is being said? You have felt the same way and marvel at how they move you with their melancholy. But...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Jun 2, 2020 | Galileo Press
Days of Summer Gone It’s too late to go back to that apartmentIn Bowling Green, Kentucky, where we slept togetherSo many nights. I wonder if whoever lives there nowAnd fucks in that bed ever wonders about us? If memory’s any good gauge, the placeMust be...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | May 6, 2020 | Galileo Press
The Distance As seen in Days of Summer Gone, Galileo Press, 1990 Two women are hugging each other goodbyeOn the sidewalk in the tree-shadowOf a late spring afternoon. It is notSexual, though both are beautiful.And though both are tall and litheUnder their dark hair,...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Mar 18, 2020 | Galileo Press
The Horizon Has a Horrible Way of Disappearing “You probably weren’t going to get pregnant anyway.” He meant it to be reassuring but it was a horrible thing to hear—the finality of her husband’s statement. What was the point, after all, of...
