by Sean Lovelace
Today in the paper is this boy. On his bed, playing with his sisters.
There is a ball. Above the bed an ornamental sword, on two wooden pegs;
it has no scabbard. This is a teenage boy. The ball against the wall,
thump, rattle . . . I suppose you know the rest. Sunday mornings she would
wake, roll over, and ask me why I collected toys, at my age. What she
meant was, Make a decision, now. What she meant was, F--- you. But is that
fair? As fair as swerving. As fair as slightly askew. Fair as still
lips, candles; grinding green sheets; the globes of her eyes. Fair as red
wine at midnight, vodka, heaving a table into drywall, a sudden wound:
swelling, gurgling, filling with. Never read the paper is my advice.
Never read anything. And the vodka, lay off. Write instead. Write your
name, then a nickname. Write an apology, fold it up: a paper airplane,
a throwing star, a butterfly. Now let it go, and luck.
Sean Lovelace is on a river right now. He has a book and a beer. Other
times he teaches at Ball State University. His work recently appeared in
CrazyHorse, Puerto del Sol, and so on.
On “Abby #14”:
One lonely summer I wrote an entire series of poems about a girl
named Abby. Abby does not exist, or does she, on the page?
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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary
Volume 2, Number 1
Copyright © 2007
by Leah Browning, Editor.
All future rights to material
published in the Apple
Valley Review are retained
by the individual authors