by Ann Tweedy
In the front loader, among other
displaced limbs, ride the legs
of the mayor's son, traveling
one last time, from leveled house
to cemetery. See, cries the mayor,
pulling one out, this was my son,
a sportsman who practiced tae kwon do.
Of all the ends love could come to,
why this one?
Ann Tweedy grew up in a small town in Massachusetts. She has been writing poetry ever since she moved to the West Coast in 1996. Over fifty of her poems have been published or are forthcoming in publications such as Clackamas Literary Review, Rattle, Avocet, Harrington Lesbian Fiction Quarterly, Berkeley Poetry Review, and Stringtown Review. For her day job, she works as a lawyer on behalf of Indian tribes and divides her time between Seattle and Skagit County, Washington.
