Poem as Anagram

Barbara P. Campbell
for mope.
If there were
another way

there might be
ice cream or a florist
smiling.

But there’s only
these words arriving
like ants

in a desert
where flowers bloom
and waves form

without water.
I let you under my skin.
Now naked

I feel dressed.
Where’s the joy?
First we crawl

and now run
on this planet
where people we love die

or just flake out.
Who are we fooling.
Sometimes the best

part of a day
is the sandwich—getting
your number called.

The touch and go
of relays outrun us.
But minds are better

than blenders. You only
have to toss an s
to turn kisses into skies.



Barbara P. Campbell lives in Berkeley, CA. Her first poetry chapbook entitled, The Invention of Life was published in 2015 by Finishing Line Press (https://finishinglinepress.com/product_info.php?products_id=2196) and her poems have appeared in Tule Review, Poetry Now, Full of Crow, Breakwater Review and other literary journals.


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