by Ann Tweedy
If you block another’s path
it may be your undoing powers,
seas shift in earth’s abacus
136 years since Reconstruction
is next to nothing human vanity
to mistake it longer than our lifespans
for forever
Ann Tweedy grew up in Southeastern Massachusetts but has spent most of her adult life in various parts of the West Coast, the Midwest, and now the South. In addition to being a poet and essayist, she is also a law professor and Tribal judge. Her full-length book, The Body’s Alphabet won a Bisexual Book Award and was a finalist for both a Lambda Literary Award and a Golden Crown Literary Award. Her chapbooks include Beleaguered Oases, White Out, A Registry of Survival, and Wind Through a Beak-Drilled Branch, which won the 2026 South Dakota State Poetry Society Annual Chapbook Contest. She holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Hamline University. She currently divides her time between South Dakota and Mississippi.
