Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume Four Issue One
Anne Barngrover
Hail Annie
Hail Annie, full of sass
and
Whataburger lemon pies!
No
one is with you to bully
a
bluebird into a Bloody Mary,
or
lure a hurricane deck
into
a wooden nook for haikus.
Blessed are you among fools,
and
blessed are your unplucked eyebrows,
clogging
drains and vacuums.
Hail Annie, full of cuticles!
And
the avocado of your womb,
Spit-fire.
Screwball
Annie, Dismal Annie,
Lil’
Mama of Unslept Nights,
you
rewind the Sleep Easy Guided Meditation
until
the By now you should be
in your
bed rips a scabby hangnail—
Hail Vengeful Annie! Pray for us ex-lovers,
who’ve
barbequed bratwursts
out
of your heart,
who
only knew how to apologize
800,000
times over while you cradled a plate
of
vegan pistachio cupcakes
in a zebra-print corset and cried—
Hail Annie, full of—hear that sound?
It’s
the New Age-y church bells pealing,
it’s
the last call at the Tiki bar,
and
it’s the sound of you getting
jilted
at the airport altar
and
not being at all surprised—
Hail Lovelorn Annie! Hasten to hear us
now
and at the hour
of
our demise, when you stay awake
all
night long smash into shards
against
the walls of our insomnia,
those
patterned china plates you never once threw.
To the Top 40 Hip-Hop, mildewed dishrags,
and
rosé boxed wine,
and
to us, the dumb baby boyfriends
wailing help
help help me for an eternity
of
never ducking fast enough from your throw,
Hail
Annie!
Amen.