Ann Weil ~ Five Poems


Blood of the Banana

For Troy, Brian, Alexandria, Arielle, Guadalupe, John, Nate and X

The flower pod hung
low and heavy,
a gor­geous appendage
two feet below
the bunch.

If left to nature,
it would ooze
its latex, clear at first,
then crim­son ink, impossible
to erase.
There was no need

for the shooter
to do what he did.


Afternoon Walk, Bone Island

And there were blushed mangoes
ripe on the branches
when the egg fell from the sky,
and as it hit the pave­ment it cracked
from perfection
to some­thing even more beautiful,
a hon­eyed sun
pil­lowed among bil­lowy clouds.
It was there I saw myself, final­ly opened—
a blood egg, yes,
but still recognizable.



I hoped for a bone,
would have set­tled for ambiguity.
Never dared the defin­i­tive dream
in either direc­tion. But here
it is— my devastation.
Her back turned, Hope walks away.


Jane Doe, Bottom of the Ninth

Where did you lose it? A ridicu­lous ques­tion most of the time— but not always. Today, I lost, or rather, left, my mem­o­ry on the north­bound Red Line between the pages of Anna Karenina right before she meets her death under the wheels of, iron­i­cal­ly, a train. Funny how I can remem­ber those details, but not my name, my address, whether I am mar­ried, a moth­er? No trau­ma. Just care­less­ness. I was head­ed to Wrigley to catch the Cubs, read­ing my way through romance and angst, and sim­ply set the book down on the seat beside me. Lost in thought. Now, just lost. Alone in a sea of red, white and blue. Are these my peo­ple? We dress alike. I won­der where home is? After the game, I’ll take the Red Line south, see what happens.


Sequined Dress, Never Worn

The sequined dress is a rain­bow in the dark, a sun­rise in the clos­et, a lit fish sparkling
against the spray, its tag dan­gling from the neck like a hook from the mouth. The dress is a mir­ror of stars, con­fet­ti sus­pend­ed mid-toss in parade, a set of mag­ic mark­ers splayed on the table, wait­ing for hands to hold, to col­or out­side the lines. The dress is hope on a hang­er, a thirsty riv­er, a yel­low brick road strewn with red pop­pies, a blue moon, a green-eyed cat, a white-hot wire siz­zling with quick cur­rent. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sequined dress is jazz on mute, a leg­less march­ing band, an ache for the repair­man who fix­es my AC. The god-damned dress is a life, a yearn­ing to escape the dim cor­ner where it lives, where it doesn’t, where it waits, where it rides the ele­va­tor with doors that don’t open, not even when I press the pan­ic button.


Ann Weil writes at her home on the cor­ner of Stratford and Avon in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and on a deck boat at Snipe’s Point Sandbar off Key West, Florida. Her work has been nom­i­nat­ed for Best of the Net and appears in DMQ Review, Crab Creek Review, 3Elements Review, Whale Road Review, and else­where. Her first chap­book, Lifecycle of a Beautiful Woman, was pub­lished in April, 2023 by Yellow Arrow Publishing.