Abby #14
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

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 2, Number 1
(Spring 2007)

Copyright © 2007
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

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