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Michael Stone

The Blackbird's Name is Anne

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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