A poem by Michael Stone
The Blackbird's Name is Anne
A screen door whaps and the old man drowses
a last cup of coffee alone.
A blackbird’s on the shoulder of the fence,
a sun-flecked silhouette.
Cool earth, solid worn-away fingers,
backyard stretching into shade,
blackbird’s song in his ears — paper weighing
with impossible figures.
He wipes his face on his sleeve,
blackbird chirping through summer heat,
a flickering ribcage — traces
of walks not alone in this garden,
Anne smiling, punching him on the arm,
and the man stumbling around clumsy
over roots and rocks to the shed,
getting up creakily
to get something from the shed.
Anne’s whistling as he opens the door
and hunches in sweet darkness
for some garden tool
and whaps his head on the doorframe
hanging there, thoughts crossing freely
from one plane to the next.
A photograph — yes, I’m in this one,
then, no I’m not, this can’t be me.
Michael Stone is a poet from Kalamazoo, MI but the only way to read his work is to make him food. He works in youth development in Grand Rapids and makes music under the name Desert Golfer.
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