by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Sep 19, 2021 | Galileo Press
It is Sunday. Where I live you get the New York Times at a tiny filling station whose habit it is to change brands of gasoline every so often. George’s Exxon a few years ago. George’s Texaco last summer. At present it is George’s Co-Op Gasoline....
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Aug 23, 2021 | Galileo Press
suppose the soul is a stoneand not the holy cellophaneI’ve fancied it,and thus — like the bodyshort of heat, strippedeven of the heart’s flimsy flam–does not hover, waft, ascend,breastroke its wayinto a panoramic hereafter(flourish of French...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Jul 24, 2021 | Galileo Press
So much death in the room but no people–the candles burned down to their stumps,the food untouched, the meat growing coldin its grease. Under the couch, the cat playswith a mole it dragged in from the barn,The mole crawls off. The cat drags it back.If cats could...
by Anniebelle Quattlebaum | Jul 10, 2021 | Galileo Press
Darkness, then, was the dark wool to my nestof light. I would tip back intothe emptiness beyond my rim of pillowsand let my head drop, my vision weave–a narrow stalk brushing back and forthacross the ceiling. Then, as now,I’d sift the risky valence the...
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...
