by Carl Boon

How about remembering this instead of

the day you decided not to braid your hair?
And standing on the platform

in the sun, of course,

he whispered: I love you very much.
The time is here with need

and cut roses.  Offers come alive

with flowers, with tears, with twenty-seven
disks of gold stitched to your dress.

How about going away? he whispered,

then the sun did, and two strands
of your hair doubled the world.

But the world was always doubled,

a movie scene, a drunk noticing a knife
on a table.  You were fortunate, you were me,

spinning logic and action into one.

I can’t know the night, the later, further
whispers.  Perhaps heat, or a song

you knew as a child, and sung

to keep that very night away.  He said,
I’ve always loved the shapes your eyes make

when no one’s looking.  He said

many things, unfortunate and not,
as poets do.  And washed, and brought

berries on a plate.  It was warm.

Your skin retained a surprise, and the sea
washed over immovable rocks.


Carl Boon lives and works in Istanbul, Turkey.  His poems were
recently published or are forthcoming in
Posit, The Tulane Review,
Badlands, JuxtaProse, The Blue Bonnet Review, and many other

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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 10, Number 2
(Fall 2015)

Copyright © 2015
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

All future rights to material
published in the
Valley Review
are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.