ANNE BARNGROVER
- Jun 9
- 3 min read
Anne Barngrover is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Everwhen, which was published with University of Akron Press in 2023 and named the bronze medal winner in poetry for the 2023 Florida Book Awards. She is an Associate Professor of English and Creative Writing at Saint Leo University, where she directs their low-residency MA in Creative Writing program, and lives in Tampa, Florida.
BLOOD ARK
In the tidal ebbing, seashells grow
brown fur, noncalcareous material.
Their teeth crowd the hinge lines.
Moonlight reconsiders. My body
releases my body, a protein expression.
The edge of the sea is worldbuilding.
Shells appear shaped from milk glass,
smudged by grainy velvet. Waves
labor with diurnal precision. I siphon.
On the shore, seashells darken to look
like rocks. The live animal inside them
inks their ancient pigment, my birth
stone’s open vein. My body releases
its pathways. I have collected all my life.
THE ISLANDS ARE SILENT NOW
as they never were before. The tide
coughs productively, hushes in its sleep.
I search for harbor seals buoyed
by undulating waves, their heads sleek
as muted hills in iron rain. Wind tosses
rheumy particles. A gull smashes a crab
against the breakwater, its orange shards
a glass ornament’s, hand blown.
The loneliness of an island is the power
of a blank page. All life is worthy
for notetaking–invasive beach roses,
a scallop’s ecru tendon, the softest dog
in the coffee shop wearing the softest sweater.
But no one says a thing. Years later, I try to
calm my nephew during my sister’s recovery
and it’s all I can do to pace the curtained
corridor until he quiets in my arms as though
he’s just realized something impossible,
his expression like a mammal who's known
the deepest seas. When he learns to speak,
he calls me by my mother’s name.
THE ORIGIN OF MAGIC
My cat investigates a corner where blank walls meet.
Ferns ruffle in a selective breeze.
Millipedes dry in spirals, seeking water during late hours.
A candle ripens in a repurposed wine bottle.
And there’s the women’s choir keening in another language.
The arabesque structure of a spiderweb.
Dust assembles woolenly, lilac when discovered.
I find notes in my grandmother’s Auden twenty years after she died.
She died in bed as my aunt bathed her with a washcloth.
Still I dream of secret passages in every place I’ve ever lived.
Any stone is a worry stone if it can lead you to the sea.
My niece at two says, Good night moon, you’re home now and waves.
She doesn’t know what death is, but she’s getting closer.
She doesn’t know what death is but she knows.
IN LONDON
Abroad for three weeks and still recovering
from surgery, I wait for my systems
to regulate so that when I return, men can
experiment on my brain and ovaries.
Over the phone, my mother assures me,
You’ve always been a very determined person.
Friends text me, Just relax and enjoy.
My husband tries his best. We’ve planned
this whole itinerary, so I make an effort
to notice the hallmarks of an English spring:
the waterlogged, pink-brown roses
draped over cracked white gates; the tidy
squares of iced carrot cake flecked with sweet
violet petals, brought out for afternoon tea;
the cobblestones like many dark mirrors
reflecting lamplight in the evening showers.
Our permanently drenched shoes, stuffed
with paper towels. I have been warned
that anxiety can lead to worse outcomes
in my situation, meaning that it’s not enough
for me to get through this, but now I’m not
supposed to feel scared about it either.
It’s cold here, a lot of rain. Riverside alleys
smell of pub toilets and fried whitebait.
The Thames roils in the filth of something
silver. My husband leads while walking,
but I’m the one who navigates
the Underground, suddenly not so hopeless
at directions when they become a puzzle
I’m always able to solve. I’m in London,
after all. I eat the black daal, the pointed
cabbage, the leek and mushroom pie.
I drink the sugared tea. I drink the bitter ale.
In the city’s most sprawling garden, I follow
a red fox through a sudden field misted
with pale flowers, its tail bright and leading
as the comet my mother once thought
about naming me after but changed her mind.