Anne Jones Weitzer: Selected Poetry
Poetry » September 2000


We are detached hearts that

Flutter in the breeze.

One appeases, another pleases.

Sacrosanctity sought by both in wrinkled

Cloaks of naïveté and knowledge.

Pummeling, seeking more of both:

Intensity of love and hope.

And we impoverished mortals that

We are, no longer quote the raven

"Nevermore." But furrow for sustenance in

Deeper realms where only the impenetrable


What joy is found is so translucent, always a

Conduit of confusion. The only

Answers do evaporate into a kingdom of

Almighty fate.

We wish we had control of all but slowly

Realize for the door of cruelest mortality,

Acceptance is the sole key to any kind of



I am a romantic figure; my long, wavy espresso-brown hair should be
Bound by vermilion velvet ribbons and
Nets of golden threads. It is my style. I long to wear black silk
Taffeta skirts that gently caress the floor with quiet strokes.
Cinch my waist tightly -- to the last notch -- with a four-inch wide
Cobalt band. The Belgian lace tickles my pale
Wrists and unadorned neck.
My sleeves billow like
Sails on Mr. Columbus's ships. Do not demand or even
Imply that I become a productive corporate employee; I am
Afraid of ladders that adumbrate severance pay. Spare me
Day-to-day deceits of ambitious Americans. I will self-destruct.
Beware of my flames. I do not want to play your mediocre games.
Leave me with my sand straw hat and worn leather edition of
Emily Dickinson. She understands me. Don't push my open-mindedness
Imagination is deliberate and powerful, the African elephant of the
Soul's veldt.
Give me acreage for rigid self-honesty.


She had been faithful to no one for six years.

Then she met the man who matched her

Brain and body.

All was well until she offered her greatest gift,


He did not reciprocate.

Needed time to contemplate.

Three weeks, three months, six.

Time enough for lover's tricks.

Love reduced to an installment plan.

She felt she was an organ donor.

Preferred that to perennial loner.

Her heart was proffered but removed, to a

Jar of something crude.

He wanted the beats, but the connections were questionable.

Always another available soon-fresher, younger, more malleable.

Too much love smashing, supplies abundant organs. Always for him, the

Bank is full.

Anne Jones Weitzer is the only child of an Arkansas landscape architect and a Pennsylvania Dutch housewife who met in Chichicastenango, Guatemala. Anne was raised in a bucolic town in southwestern Tennessee. She graduated from a small women's college in New York, where she studied developmental psychology, then moved to Manhattan to teach second grade at the Brearley School. For several years she was a first-grade teacher at the Fleming School, followed by a stint as the administrative assistant to the president of a men's clothing company, and a production planner of mattress ticking for a Fortune 100 textile corporation.

Anne's collection of poetry, Furrow, Will be available in late October from Barnes & Noble. Anne describes it as "a poetic and literary version of 'Sex and the City' and 'Bridget Jones's Diary.'" Anne has been a writer and editor at "Lear's Magazine," "Condé," Nast Traveler," "MD Magazine," and other publications.

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