Evan Anders

my favorite part of your sadness


            we crawl out of our souls to dance marry

                        around the dying mockingbird


            god laughs at us while we tend to his roses.


            this morning i killed two roaches in the act of sex

                        or was it more than a physical act?


            i’ve come to terms with everyone i love dying

                        except for my son.


            if prince can die there is no hope for us.


            i believe my son is prince reincarnated,

                        i have the proof at home. take my word.


            let me read you this poem about a dog

                        that could speak and told dirty jokes.


                        stop me if you’ve heard this war


            we crack with laughter until cannons go deaf


            pain from ann arbor buried in your heart

                        like an olive pit in the shoe


            i wish you wouldn’t cover up those scars

                        they are my favorite part of your sadness.

south of france

how many times has weather
been brought to your attention today?

i feel indifferent towards eclipses and blizzards.

most days i talk very little

if i seem rude, it’s a decoy.

please don’t ask me about weather, injustice or my latest
poetry submissions

i don’t understand any of it.

the topic of ones-self bores me

perhaps in ten years

we will stumble upon each-other somewhere in the south
of france.

we will have no great love

no great burden or desire

“isn’t the weather lovely today?” i’ll say

and the conversation will move on.


Evan Anders brews coffee for mass consumption in Philadelphia. His poems have appeared in Philadelphia Stories, California Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, with forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys. He changes diapers and thinks Bob Dylan was best in the eighties.