Poetry by Ann Long

     Danielle Henry CC




To the Younger Self


In the cold night sky of the mind I find you 
looking: Who is going to stop him? Eventually
you thought it would have to be a man. I can 
tell you now: no one ever did. You clambered

through each aperture you found. Discovered
who you are on your own. Got a dog who’d kill 
for you. But no one saved your life, not even 
you. Keep looking, and you will find sonatas 

that electrify the roots of your hair. A sun dog 
to sparkle at noon, shy ephemerals of spring,
and a handful of humans steeped in homemade
brews of kindness to walk with as you grow 

into your own brilliant workshop where 
you will craft your very own armor and tea. 





The Therapist Thinks I’m Pretty


I held myself together fairly well in the drab 

health department room warmed by posters 

and plants. Business-like, she asked when I 

remembered a significant shift in mood. 

Twelve years before: Thirteen. Eyes on her 

clipboard: Did anything unusual happen then? 

I disclosed an assault. Her pen froze, her eyes met

mine. After four sessions she gave her first opinion: 

I think you’ll have to take responsibility for having 

been pretty.  How to explain I’d never been pretty, 

didn’t know how to be? At puberty, feet calloused 

from walking the pasture, I’d call the cows, check 

the slatted bridge I had to cross for the copperhead 

who sunned himself there, throw dirt clods until he 

muscled himself beneath the slats where I imagined 

him waiting, mouth open, each time I walked across. 

I can almost hear her ask me: Why didn’t you wear shoes? 


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Spring Break, 1984


I open my eyes to the hungry 

cat, the quiet of a neighborhood 

once everyone’s at work. My hair 

sticky because I’d thrown up 

in my sleep, vintage housedress 

twisted at my waist. I shower. 

Coffee, cigarettes. More 

coffee. Noon: I’m stumbling 

through tall grass by Highway 

54 again, my habit for the week, 

the convenience store clerk kind 

enough not to meet my eyes.



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Ann Long lives in Warren County, Virginia, where the Blue Ridge mountains meet the Shenandoah River. They grew up in North Carolina and have worked as a labor/community organizer and grant writer. They recently completed their first poetry collection via the mentorship program at The Loft Literary Arts Center in Minneapolis, MN. 
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