Anne Holub

“EVACUATION”

Arrival held together
like a pulled muscle,
stalled,
and we lay bare
on salt-wood
and felt our bodies
darken, sink
with the tide,
and we stole cactus,
dug thorns from bone.
In a stilted house
with doors
that yawned open,
we counted:
too few arms and legs.
The rules were
Then the hurricane.
Then the long white bridge.

“SEIZING”

Outside each
window, a view
of needled tree limbs bent
against the panes.
How much weight
you bear
between your teeth?
Can we manufacture
the time we spend
together into something
that bleeds meaning?  Our bodies – Look.
Hands often lack
sincerity.  Take that from your mouth.
Look here.  Replace your unutterable
fears with names
for the old mountains behind your house,
their worn slopes much
softer than you had anticipated.
Look me in the eyes.  The trees,
the trees are shaking.

Anne Holub’s poetry has been featured on Chicago Public Radio and in The Doubleback Review, The Mississippi Review, The Asheville Poetry Review, Phoebe, and The Beacon Street Review (now Redivider), among other publications, and in the anthology Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing, (Open Country Press). Her chapbook, "27 Threats to Everyday Life," is forthcoming (Finishing Line Press). She received a MFA from the University of Montana and a MA from Hollins University. Originally from Charlottesville, Virginia, she now lives and writes in Montana with her husband Dan, their two dogs Merle and Rosie, and a sourdough starter named Rhonda.