Spring 2012

Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 1


Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Essays    Reviews   

Liliane Anders


Eastside Cemetery, Afton NY

my blue veined hand

apple eaten

a lifetime waited away

white sun
blinding cold

three names
on stones

a leaf here

add a little wind

there’s a cow
on the next hill

The mountain looks
gray today


Mid March

A farmhouse the color of a full moon breathes into the warm evening, its windows glowing honey brown in the last light.

White posts mark the edges of the barnyard. The barn itself, weathered, once stood red, now sits waiting to be moonlit as that orb sails into the branches of an ancient split-leafed maple.

This tree, looking like Botticelli’s three maidens, three graces dancing in a circle, has grown from three trunks, branches entwined, tugged upward by the sun and outward in the spin of Earth’s gravity.

Birds call “safe sleep” to one another, or argue over whose wife is nesting with whom, or perhaps that the accommodations seem less than first rate.

This then, this first true night of spring, with the first kiss of new new new, the first touch of heat to come, promises better, greener days.


Memoir of a three year old: train

beacons and the din din din sound of warning
it is night and our car is crossing a road perhaps
the rhythm and sway slow coming to a squawking halt
pause and now immediately build-up-quick to
a rocking momentum again

the reflection facing me is soft blond
with hair swept high I am not sure that she loves me
she has me seated upon the drop leaf that serves as a
window table for thermos or packed lunch
we are just the two of us

she reaches suddenly pulling us back into the
compartment yellow illuminated
her drawing the shade has shut out our child’s play
of movement and light to listen
male voices in the corridor

Be still her green eyes shiver you must not cry
they can take you away
she searches one hand anxious
through her bag as
our door is dragged in its track
they are tall dressed in dark two or three
my mother hands over her identification

he opens and reads the pause is long
before he finally hands it back and
steps out into the hallway
the door gnashing along it clicks

“Gestapo” her breath tart
she whispers almost hugging me
“bad men bad”
the light continues to be yellow bright


© Liliane Anders


left button              right button

Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Essays    Reviews   

Website Copyright © 2012 by Loch Raven Review.

Copyright Notice and Terms of Use: This website contains copyrighted materials, including, but not limited to, text, photographs, and graphics. You may not use, copy, publish, upload, download, post to a bulletin board. or otherwise transmit, distribute, or modify any contents of this website in any way, except that you may download one copy of such contents on any single computer for your own personal non-commercial use, provided you do not alter or remove any copyright, poet, author, or artist attribution, or any other proprietary notices.