Poetry by Ann Iverson

     Dane CC




WHAT I LIKED MOST
 
about the old life

is that it was before

this happened and

after that happened

and in between

all the happenings

that seem to happen.

Like the time the dogs

dragged in a dead

rabbit and how

I screamed and threw

a blanket over it

and hauled it to the back.
 

Or how people paraded

past with kids or dogs

or babies in strollers

or how, if I fell

asleep on the old blue couch,

I could see the moon floating

through the pines and hear the

owl’s distant hoot.
 
 
What I liked most

about the old life

is that she wasn’t sick

and he could still walk

and you and you and you

were still alive.

And still, we haven’t

finished saying

our goodbyes.
 

What I liked most

about the old life

is that the phone

was attached to the wall.

The TV had five channels

and I licked a stamp

to pay the bills

and sewed pillows

on the porch.
 

What I liked most

about the old life

is that I can’t seem

to grab it. It’s like

one of those games

at the State Fair

when you try to clutch

a prize with a mechanical

wench but you only get

what you can get.
 

What I liked most

about the old life

is that it wasn’t old at all

but big as a dream,

enormous as a wish

when you throw

pennies in a fountain.

You see its reflection

across the pools

of water and wonder

where it went.
 

What I liked most
​
about the old life

is when I painted

all the garden statues

gold, and they shimmered

in the sun and the cat

sat in the window

and the neighbors

waved and pointed

and I felt as though

I was good.




Ann Iverson is the author of six poetry collections as well as a collection of CNF.  Her work has appeared in a wide variety of both print and electronic publications. As a visual artist she enjoys the interconnection between art and words.
​