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Three Poems by Anne Garwig

The Quarry

 

Before writing my wife

I swim in the rock quarry

from which something came

that’s as gone as the steel mills. 

My body of cold water with baby 

snails on the gritstone ledges.

The sun dives under 

the trees, and I shiver 

in rock water and read

and write love poetry alone.

 

But upon discovery by my peers

I throw the melancholy aside

like a sticky magazine

and put my dick back into 

my heart, where it belongs. 

 

 

Grown

 

I still have to feed myself

and clean

a big baby Anne.

 

I miss you,

               Anne.

 

In my first backyard

I grew my first tomatoes

and beans, so many

they rotted, an embarrassment

of riches, while I ate takeout. 

 

 

Rib//Word Bank

 

I want to cut out every rib forever,

scatter them in the matted library 

carpet, until microscopic memories

of the unpleasurable principle.

 

They rib out the structure

of a misdirection,

an abstracted, bric-a-bracted 

rape, locked in a tidy cage.

Birds flown, now residing 

on wrists, hips, and ankles.

 

They rib a sweater in my word bank.

A Franciscan squirrel languishes

in Amagansett.

Cookie slides a cigar to a new dude.

Make a new rhythm in movement

of conversation between me & thee. 

 

 

Anne Garwig is a 2016 graduate of the NEOMFA program, where she worked on Whiskey Island Magazine and The Penguin Review. Her poems have recently appeared in Icarus Down Magazine. Anne lives in Youngstown, Ohio. 

 

 

Image credit: Choue_

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