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Blind Date
On the phone, you said you have a beard.
I didn't think to ask what kind
or if you have a hearing problem or beer belly.
I look at beards through the window of a coffee shop.
One long beard
paces the street,
grimacing, yelling at babies, spitting
in the patch of tulips.
The next beard above a stocky frame,
unkempt, wiry.
I would not want this beard
pressed against my cheek.
Only one more, at the next table
spooning oatmeal, not spilling it on
his nice-enough beard.
With him, a woman. They do not speak
for two years,
the time it might take
to pluck out your beard
hair by hair.
First publsihed in Writers Post Journal
After Reading Einstein's Theory
Who knows who will
Step out of the fog -
Man or beast. And how many toes.
Will there be a sultry
Song drifting over the damp air.
Will I remember the words.
If I order a martini
With two olives instead
Of three, will I have more
Vodka in my glass
Or fewer olives.
Is it possible
That the stars
Do not shine
When I'm looking away.
I carry two bags of groceries
In the rain, in the dark,
To an empty house. But is it empty?
First published in Dispatch Magazine
Becoming An Artist In Mallorca
I draw the hot breeze flicking the leaves,
draw my body with passion
like two cats fighting in a storm.
Draw with strips of red pepper and a fig,
draw upside down with a twig dipped in black ink.
I draw shapes of honey-colored rocks and artichoke flowers
as blue as old ice in Antarctica.
I draw women's kitchen voices and clang of pots.
I want to draw the taste of paella
and getting drunk on sangria with slices of apples and oranges.
I want to draw the yellow butterfly
zigzagging across the patio this moment.
I want to draw last night under the fat moon,
swimming naked, bats skimming the pool.
I want to draw how I was, alone.
First published in Georgetown Review
In a Taxi
Riding to the hospital,
my daughter-in-law sang
all the rivers of Ireland very fast and
recited the alphabet backwards.
The surgeon removed a growth,
right there on the pituitary gland,
close to the brain.
She feared going blind,
dancing naked in a garden,
feared becoming a vegetable.
She hated vegetables,
hated Rumanian gypsies in Ireland,
and hospitals.
My son, feared she would die
while I feared the rock I was becoming
would crumble into the rivers
Liffy, Lee, Shannon, Barrow, Noir.
First published in The Griffin
Ann McGovern is a prize-winning author of 55 books for children including STONE SOUP.
Her poems have been published in 30 literary journals, including Oberon, Confrontation,
and Georgetown Review. She lives in New York City.
Email: Ann McGovern
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