
Benediction for Ice Cream by Ana Marie Boyd
I can still hear the slow jam jingle of the ice cream truck gliding along past our yellow house like it was riding on rails
after John Ashbery
The birds opened their coffee klatch in earnest,
chatting the sky from black to blue in maybe
a hundred singing telegrams. I sipped coffee
and eavesdropped on the overlapping timbres
and turns of phrase in their feathered acrobatics.
Pick-up trucks grumbled past, into Wednesday,
more mind-reader than machine for engines
which sounded more like driver’s complaints
than random idling. Amid the light twittering,
a raven sounded a bass note twice. The other
birds stopped. Paused to listen? A long silence.
A second raven answered, more like laughing.

I can still hear the slow jam jingle of the ice cream truck gliding along past our yellow house like it was riding on rails

Pick a star, any star & I’ll reach straight up and grab it for you put it right inside your hot little hand we had

for Alex — a golden shovel, after Andrea Gibson The sky is still keening and so am I. What is too many tears? I let

It will probably happen when I’m at work, and he recruits a nosy, but caring friend with an AI-powered search engine. They’ll hush behind a

Your gaze becomes a stare, forcing your views without saying a word. Your eyes tell me a story. One where I fall to the wayside.






















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