by Priscilla Atkins

Crippled, her late eighties,
Mom lamented, “No one
around here whistles”––

she used to whistle a long two-
tone from the porch, calling
her children home;

one evening an escaped parakeet
from blocks away quietly rode
in, winged green on her apron bow.

This morning, Gene, in his
reds, tremolos, making
the rounds of weeds and roses.


Priscilla Atkins has worked as a librarian and an instructor of
women’s and gender studies.  Her collection of lyric poems,
Café of Our Departure
, was published by Sibling Rivalry Press
in 2015.

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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.